1972
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Libre Bellerose is a charmingly naive farm girl, content to lead the simple life in her small town set smack-dab in the middle of Ohio. But when things begin to go awry, spiraling out of control, she seeks solace with a strange man who calls himself Ares, though he might just be harboring a deep secret... Set in 1970s USA, 1972... (full summary inside)
1. Part I, June: Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the kickoff of my new long (ish) FanFiction. Set in the early 1970s, the story centers around the relationship with a mortal and a god, and the destruction that follows in its wake. Interwoven with period details, such as the Vietnam War and the era of psychedelia, the story pays homage to its 70s roots. Hope you enjoy, and please review!**

 **Note #1: Thanks to go the amazing Rosestream for beta-reading! Three cheers! Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!**

 **Note #2: Updates will be twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. Stay tuned!**

 **Disclaimer: I lay no claims to neither the cover image nor the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series or its subsequent companion series, the Heroes of Olympus, or any of its consequent subsidiaries. I do, on the other hand, own a polka-dotted lamp with a burned-out light bulb. Yippee!**

 **Rating: T (subject to change in later chapters)**

 **Summary: Sixteen-year-old Libre Bellerose is a charmingly naive farm girl, content to lead the simple life in her small town set smack-dab in the middle of Ohio. But when things begin to go awry, spiraling out of control, she seeks solace with a strange man who calls himself Ares, though he might just be harboring a deep secret... Set in 1970s USA, 1972 is a tale about overcoming grief and rising above despair, strengthening yourself and forging a new life out of smoldering ashes.**

* * *

 **Part I**

 **June**

One

I don't know when I first saw him.

The summer air hung heavy and thick over the farm, settling like a wispy cobweb over a field of sun-bleached cornstalks. The sky overhead was purple-gray, twisted and deformed, a fleeting summer storm a hairsbreadth away. I knew the sort – the kind of monsoon that swept over Ohio, devastating and destructive, lightning splitting tree trunks and lives right down the middle. I shoved my sweaty hair out of my forehead, gauging the storm. Lightning flashed against the darkened sky in the distance. Minutes, if that, until the storm struck.

My eyes flicked over to the farmhouse, hazy on the horizon, and beyond that, the silver silos poking up from the loamy soil. I sighed, nudging a soybean plant with the toe of my work boot. I was going to get trapped in the storm, sure enough. I'd just have to hope – no, pray – that I would escape the barrage of white-hot lightning.

I turned, looking at Enfin by my feet. She was settled on the ground, her head resting on her massive paws. I knelt, scratching her behind her ears. "You're awfully lazy," I commented as she rolled over onto her stomach, panting sloppily. Drool snaked out of the corner of her mouth.

I stood, ready to make a run for the farmhouse. I brushed the dirt of my jeans, swiveling to whistle for Enfin to follow…

And then I saw him.

I had probably noticed him before, a shadow lingering in the corner of my vision. He was standing about fifty feet away, his motorcycle boots wedged in the soft Ohioan soil. He was almost obnoxiously tall; six-three or six-four at least. He was wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a pair of thick-wedged motorcycle boots. Fingerless gloves covered his massive hands, and a pair of sunglasses sat askew on his nose.

I narrowed my eyes. "Who are you?" I called.

He didn't answer. He just stood there, aloof and seemingly disinterested, a cynical smile playing at his lips as he gazed at me. "I asked you a question," I shouted, taking a step forward. Enfin jumped up as well, sensing my distress. Noticing the stranger, she began to bark, her sharp yips slicing through the humid air. "Who the hell are you, and why are you on my property?"

He grinned, his teeth sharp and white. His face was marked with scars, some faded and white, as if they were old battle wounds, some pink and puckered, as if they were brand-new. "You're going to get stuck in the storm," he said, pointing toward the sky.

As if on cue, a massive bolt of lightning struck with a deafening crack. The whole world shook, or so it felt. A muscle ticked in my jaw. "I asked you a question," I said, walking fast toward him as the rain began to fall, sinking into the lush soil. Enfin followed on my heels, still barking, her teeth bared.

He smiled. " _Iremía_ ," he told Enfin, kneeling on the ground. She quieted immediately, sitting back on her haunches, and for the first time, I took a step back, almost afraid. Enfin was an Anatolian Shepherd, a massive dog bred for protecting livestock. She didn't simply _calm down_. He looked at me, his mouth twitching. "Smart girl," he said quietly, though whether he was referring to Enfin or to me, I didn't know.

"Run back inside, Libre," he told me.

I stilled. "How –" My throat felt dry. "How do you know my name?"

"Go," he told me again. "Or you'll be drenched within seconds." He wasn't wrong – rain was pouring from the sky, pelting me with increasing rapidity.

"I don't usually run away," I said, gritting my teeth. "I'm not that kind of girl."

He took off his sunglasses, and his hair – shoulder-length, dark and dripping with bathwater rain – shaded his face. He wiped his glasses on the hem of his shirt. "I didn't say you were," he said evenly; calmly. "But you have to choose your battles wisely, and this is not one worth fighting."

"Who says –"

"Go, Libre," he said, sliding his sunglasses back on his face. I noticed that his nose was crooked and bumpy as if it had been broken multiple times. "I'll be back."

"Like hell you will!" I cried. "This is my property, and I've got a gun."

He arched an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. "Go back to your farmhouse," he said.

Following his words, a bolt of silver-gold lightning sliced through the sky, flashing brightly against the dark storm clouds. I whirled, heart slamming against my ribcage, and when I turned around again, he was gone. Just… vanished. Like he'd never even been there in the first place.

Shivering, I turned around and ran back toward the farmhouse, Enfin following on my heels.

* * *

That was the first time I ever saw him. I didn't know who he was, not at the time. I didn't know the half of the horrible truths that lay in store, not then, not when I was still a naïve farm girl, newly turned sixteen, the whole world waiting at my fingertips.

It was the summer of 1972 when I first saw Ares appear on the horizon.

My life was never the same.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2, Pt I

**A/N: Chapter Two, on Friday as promised! Enjoy!**

 **Note #1: Thanks again goes to Rosestream, my fabulous Beta!**

 **Note #2: Thanks to all reviewers! You make my day!**

 **Disclaimer: Do I own Percy Jackson? Um, seeing as how I'm just a teenager with an abnormal obsession for the Beatles and the Police, I'd say no, sorry. I do, however, own a record player (yippee!).**

 **Rating: T (subject to change in later chapters)**

 **Summary: I would type it again, but you can either A) go to the beginning of Chapter One or B) just look at the top of the page, so I think I'll pass. Instead, I'll type this incredibly witty joke: Knock-knock.** ** _Who's there?_** **Carl.** ** _Carl who?_** **Carl you back later! (You know, like call you back later. Sorry, I'll stop now.)**

* * *

Two

" _Mon Dieu,_ Lili!" my mother cried when I hauled open the kitchen door, shivering and soaking wet. She looked harried, her thin lips twisted, her grayed hair falling free of her messy bun. "You're completely drenched!"

I winced, shucking off my work boots near the door. "Sorry, _Maman,"_ I replied, kissing her on the cheek. "I was out in the corn fields when the storm hit."

Enfin came barreling through the door, her paws slipping and sliding on the floor tiles. " _Pouah!"_ my mother said, shaking a dishtowel at Enfin. "Dirty beast. Clean your dog, Lili, or she stays outside."

" _Maman,_ it's raining," I said.

"Eh," my mother said, shrugging. "She will survive."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a towel off the counter. "Enfin, sit," I ordered, and she did as she was told, rainwater dripping from her mucky fur. "For Chrissakes," I muttered, rubbing her down with the towel. Enfin shook her head, spraying water droplets in my eyes. I blinked, recoiling, and Enfin sprung up, yipping and running wild through the house. " _Enfin!"_

I sprung to my feet, ready to chase after her, when my mother caught my wrist. My mother was a small woman, short like me. We were both only five-two, dwarfed by my father and brothers, their heights over six feet tall. Still, my mother was sharp, and when she wanted to be, she was awfully intimidating. She could grow six inches in the span of a millisecond.

"You are pale," my mother commented, her hands on her hips.

" _Maman,_ Enfin got loose –"

"I saw," she said. "Fitz will catch her. Why are you pale?"

"I'm not pale, _Maman_."

"Yes," my mother said, head cocked. "You are. Now, sit. Explain."

I probably could've. I could've taken a seat in one of our rickety farm chairs, dripping wet, and told her the whole story – the strange man in the cornfields with the biker gear, his cynicism and commanding tone. For some reason, however, I stayed silent. I wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't as if it were some big, shameful secret. And yet, something kept my lips sewed shut. Something made my eyes fixate on the rose-patterned wallpaper.

 _"Shit!"_

My mother exhaled. Her nostrils flared. _"Fitz Pierre Bellerose! You will not use that language in my house!"_ she bellowed, surprisingly loud for such a small woman. I winced, covering my ears. She just gave me a derisive look. "Buck up," she told me.

Fitz came into the kitchen then, his face thunderous. He was dragging Enfin by her collar. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he swore angrily at me. "How many times have I told you to keep your damn dog outside, Lili?"

"Watch your mouth, or I will wash it out with soap, Fitz," my mother warned, her eyes flashing.

" _Maman,_ I'm seventeen," Fitz said, shooting her a dirty look. Enfin yipped, still struggling to get free.

"You still live under my roof, yes?" my mother said, her eyebrow arched high as the Empire State Building. "When you have your own house, you may use all the dirty language you like, and live like a soiled heathen. When you are in my house, you will not curse like an uneducated pig."

Fitz raked his free hand through his hair, his fist clenching as if he meant to yank the thin strands of brown hair out of his skull. "Yes, _Maman."_

"Good," my mother said with a small sniff. "Now, let that poor dog free, Fitz."

"If I do that, she'll just run through the house like a-"

I leapt forward, taking Enfin from him. "Sit!" I commanded, and Enfin did as she was told, laying down balefully behind my legs, still eying Fitz warily.

"Stupid dog," Fitz said, glaring at Enfin.

"Smarter than you are." I glared at him, grabbing the damp towel and drying my dog off.

"Buzz off," Fitz said, folding his massive forearms.

"Make me," I shot back, eyes narrowed.

"Both of you!" my mother cried, clearly exasperated. "Hush!" She shook her head. "Lili, clean off that dog and whatever mess she left behind. Fitz –" She turned toward my brother. "Where is your father and Martel?"

Fitz shrugged. "They went into town while you were out in the garden," he said. "Probably went to get something to eat."

My mother nodded, lips pursed as she looked out the window. The rain pounded against the house, thunder rumbling in the distance. "Ah," she said.

"They'll be fine, Maman," Fitz said.

"You are probably right," she said though she sounded unconvinced.

"Papa knows the signs of a summer storm by now," I said. "He won't get stuck in the thick of it."

She turned around. "Just like you did not?"

I shrank back, hanging my head. "That was different."

"What?" Fitz said, seeming to notice for the first time my soggy appearance. "You're a mess, Lili. What the hell happened?"

I crossed my arms. "I…" I paused. "I was out by the cornfields. I was being an idiot."

"No surprise there," Fitz muttered, turning around and stalking out of the kitchen. My mother tossed me a sideways look. She clearly wasn't buying a word of my hogwash, but she didn't say anything. She just turned back to the window, staring at the rain pouring down from the skies, pensive and worried.

I kneeled on the floor, slowly wiping the mud off of Enfin's paws, and felt a shiver travel down my spine. _I'll be back._

* * *

I was a pure American girl, born under a star-spangled sky with the taste of freedom lingering on my lips. It was funny, considering the fact that my family was French.

My parents were both born in France – my father was raised on a farm in Normandy and my mother spent her childhood in Paris. Both of them served in World War II. When the Germans invaded Poland, my grandfather yanked his family, including my father, out of Normandy and into Great Britain. When my father turned eighteen in 1943, he enlisted in the British army. My mother, on the other hand, was a member of the French Resistance in Paris, a fairly high-up operative. Both of my parents were tough as nails, and they passed that trait down to me.

After the war was over, my parents moved to the United States, my father bringing his parents and two sisters with him. My mother's family had been decimated in World War II, her three brothers dead before their twentieth birthdays, her parents and sister dragged off to a labor camp and never seen again. She was a lone survivor.

Once my father's family reached America, they disbanded. My aunt Lise met a dashing young man from Toulouse on the boat ride over, and they got married in New York City, and, on a whim, decided to stay there. We usually saw her and her husband and children at Christmas.

My aunt Jolie did much the same thing, but she and her husband moved down south instead, to Atlanta, and we usually saw her and her husband at Easter.

My father, mother, and grandparents, however, moved inland. My father had grown up on a farm, and he wanted that life back, just away from war-torn France. He moved to Ohio, buying a small farm smack-dab in-between Columbus and Cincinnati. He bought a few cows, a couple of pigs, some chickens, and for good measure, two goats. We grew two major crops at our farm; corn and soybeans. My mother, on the other hand, had her flower garden, overflowing with award-winning begonias, azaleas, hydrangeas, black-eyed Susans, impatiens, and petunias, to name a few. And of course we had our vegetable gardens, flourishing with tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, squash, and carrots, among others.

There was a farmhouse already on the property – a white house with chipping paint, creaky boards, and a crumbling brick chimney. Instantly in love with it, my father and grandfather restored the house and my mother planted an ivy vine. Twenty-six years later, the house was trim and neat, with a shaded porch and an ivy vine that curled around the chimney, waxy leaves a dark, rich green in the spring and summer.

Five years after settling in Ohio, my parents had their first child, my oldest brother, Lovett. He served in Vietnam now, as far from Ohio as could possibly be, lost in the deep jungles of Southeast Asia. We got letters from him sometimes, though they were irregular. He would stuff a letter for each of us in a bulging envelope, hastily scrawled sentences never near enough. _Dear Lili_ , he would write. My full name was Libre, but hardly anyone in my family ever called me that. I was known as Lili.

Two years after Lovett was born, my parents had my older sister Nicoline. The moment Nicoline turned eighteen, she was off. Nicoline was different from the rest of us. My parents had raised their children to believe that war was a horrible thing, but when justice demanded it, battles must be fought. "We did not fight for France," my mother would say. "We fought for the downtrodden. Wars should not be fought for land, for money, for women or treasure. Wars should be fought for freedom."

But Nicoline believed in peace; love and peace, enough to make her travel with rioting crowds. "Make love, not war," she would say, a dreamy look haunting her eyes. After she turned eighteen, she headed out to California with some friends, smoking pot the whole way there, searching for opportunities to spread their beliefs. Nicoline was malleable, shifting with the tides. She believed whatever her friends believed, did whatever her friends did. The last time I saw her, about a year ago, she was hooked on acid and alcohol, washing each down with a heavy dose of pot.

Two years after Nicoline came Martel and Fitz. They were fraternal twins, like night and day, Fitz with dark hair and a dark scowl, Martel blond-haired and generally cheerful. My family suspected Martel was gay, though he'd never told us so himself. We were all waiting for him to admit it, though my father prayed that he was wrong. He was the only one of us against the homosexuals. We were somewhat liberal for Ohioans.

Finally, there was me, the youngest of the bunch, born a year and a half after Martel and Fitz. I was a spitfire, standing at five-foot-two, a tomboy with a love for wandering through the farm and getting lost. On my tenth birthday, my parents had given me Enfin as a pet. At least, they reasoned, when I walked through the cornfields, along the side of the road where our farm met the irregular, gap-toothed line of oak trees, stretching up high and tall, strong and thick-trunked, I would have a guard dog accompanying me. It could pounce anyone stupid enough to troll our farmland.

After I was born, my mother announced that she was finished with having children. Both she and my father were eighteen when World War II ended, twenty-three when Lovett was born. Five children later, at nearly thirty, my mother went to the drugstore, bought a box of condoms, and told my father that if he wanted to have her, he would wear rubber. My father, a devout Catholic, reluctantly agreed.

Lingering in the background of my family were my grandparents. My grandfather died when I was four years old, in 1960, but my grandmother held onto life with an iron grip. White-haired and abnormally quiet, she sat in her rocking chair on the porch most days, watching the sky change from ice-blue to a mix of violet and Valencia.

That was my family. That was our story.

Looking back on it now, I wish I'd cherished them more. I wish I'd clung to them. I wish I'd treasured my days on the farm, because years later, I would wish more than anything that I was back there, wandering through the cornfields and soybean crops barefoot in the summer, toes turned brown from muck and mud, or lying on my back on the sun-warmed soil, watching the sky like my poor, absentminded grandmother, the ground slowly growing cold beneath me.

I wish I were there now as I type madly on my typewriter, as my hands tremble. The summer of 1972 changed my life forever, and not just because of Ares. I suppose I thought life would go back to normal in the autumn. We would continue to get the occasional letter from Lovett, continue to hear sporadic phone calls from Nicoline, her voice slurred, continue to smile at Martel behind his back, continue to make fun of Fitz for his dour personality, continue to see Aunt Lise and her family at Christmas, and Aunt Jolie and her family at Easter.

But we wouldn't. We couldn't.

I wish now, more than anything, that I had held the good times close to my heart before they were gone forever.

* * *

 **A/N: Now you've got some background on the story! Next chapter, we'll start getting into the real plot line. Please review and let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3, Pt I

**A/N: Back for round three! Here's where we move beyond the exposition... Hope you all enjoy!**

 **Note #1: Thanks goes to Rosestream for her fab Beta-ing skills! (Question: is beta-ing a word, or can I justify it as a hyphenation? Hmm.)**

 **Note #2: Thanks to all reviewers, seriously. I'm sending you all cookies over the internet. Only store-bought cookies, not cookies that I baked myself, because if they were homemade cookies... Well. They'd probably (a) taste like charcoal, and (b) be slightly soggy from our sprinkler system, on account of the smoke alarms going off. If you catch my drift.**

 **Note #3: I'm not sure for those of you in countries around the world, but for those of us in the good ol' U.S. of A. (I mean, MOST of us are alright, despite what you might assume from the 2016 presidential election), it's spring break season! *waves hands in air and dances around like a crazy person* NO MORE SCHOOL! (For a week, anyway. And then my teachers get to be sadistic bitches with finals season. BUT UNTIL THEN: FREEDOM!)**

 **Wow. Sorry, I got a little excited.**

 **Anyway... Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. However, over (glorious) spring break, I went to Meijer and bought two speckled goldfish, both silver and black. I named them Sonny and Cher, and they now live on my dresser and swim around my fish tank. So, while I might not own Percy Jackson, I do own two fish! Yippee!**

 **Summary: You know where to look. I'm a lazy f***. What else is new?**

* * *

Three

To my relief, my father and Martel came back to the farmhouse safe and sound, unharmed by the vicious summer storm. My mother berated my father and brother for worrying her, her sharp voice carrying through the thin walls of our farmhouse, emanating from the faded rose-patterned wallpaper. But it didn't matter, not to me, at least: they were back, healthy and strong-willed as ever. In our world of worrying about Lovett half a world away, not to mention Nicoline and her vicious addictions, that was all that really mattered to me. They were safe.

It was that early June when I first saw the strange man in the cornfields, and though I wandered through the farm for days afterward, I didn't see him again. Days passed without anything out of the ordinary, humming with the subtle drone of monotony, and I began to let down my guard, believing that he was gone forever. Whoever he was, I reasoned, he probably wasn't coming back.

A few weeks later, we got an unexpected phone call. Our battered, off-white rotary phone rang late at night while I was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a Harlequin paperback romance, Enfin resting by my feet. Eyebrows creased, I stared at the phone. My parents and grandmother were sound asleep, Fitz was smoking on the porch, and Martel was conked out on the couch in the living room.

I got up out of my chair and lifted the phone to my ear. "Bellerose Residence. How may I help you?" I said.

"Lili? Oh, my God." I realized, with a jolt down my spine, that it was Nicoline. "You sound so… like… formal." She giggled, high-pitched and sloppy. _Drunk._

"You're drunk," I said. It was a statement; an acknowledgment. I was praying that she'd deny it, my fingers crossed behind my back like an elementary schoolgirl, but I knew any such admission was unlikely at best.

She sighed, and I held the phone away from my ear. I could almost smell the sour alcohol on her breath. "No," she said, and my heart lifted. "High. It's amazing."

I set my jaw, ready to hear whatever she was going to say. "What are you on this time, Nic?"

"I dunno… A bunch of stuff." She laughed again. "Acid. Acid is great. Acid is amazing." She exhaled. "I love acid, Lili."

I massaged my temples as Martel walked in the room, looking groggy, his blond hair mussed. "Who the hell is calling us at midnight?" he croaked, rubbing his eyes.

"It's Nicoline," I told him.

"That's right!" Nicoline said over the phone delightedly. "That's my name! You're so _smart,_ Lili."

Martel's eyes sharpened. "Nicoline?" He glanced at the clock. "What, does she want to tell us goodnight? It's the middle of the night!"

"Who's that in the background?" Nicoline asked, her voice still delighted like a little child.

I put my hand over the receiver. "She's high," I told him.

"Who's high?" Fitz asked, walking in the door, his cigarette glowing pomegranate in the darkness.

"Nicoline," Martel said, gesturing toward the phone, the corners of his mouth yanked down in a dismayed frown.

Fitz swore. "On what, exactly?"

"Acid, but-" Fitz didn't let Martel finish his sentence.

He roughly yanked the phone from my hand. "Nicoline, it's Fitz." Even from my stance a few feet away, I could hear her delighted laughter. Martel wiped his hand across his face. "Nicoline, what are you on?"

"Jesus, Fitz," Martel said. "You need to build up to it. You can't just ask her what drugs she's been using out of the blue."

I decided now was probably not the time to mention that I'd done, more or less, the same exact thing.

As Martel was speaking, Fitz's face drained of color. He gripped the phone tight. "Repeat that last one for me, Nic, if you could."

Martel and I exchanged an anxious look. "She was pretty euphoric," I hedged, my voice grown soft and fragile with worry. "I thought she was drunk at first, but she said she was high."

Martel's lips were twisted grimly. "She's probably both."

Fitz swore vehemently then, making us both jump. "Shh," I hissed. "Do you want to wake Maman? She'll kill us, for Chrissakes!"

"Nic, hold on just a second," Fitz said, putting his hand over the receiver. He glared at both of us, as if this was our fault. "She's on cocaine."

I froze.

"What?"

"Nic. She's on fucking cocaine. Years of acid and pot, and she's finally progressed, and from what it sounds like, she's drugged herself up pretty nice. Maybe enough to OD."

Martel walked over to his twin, calmly took the phone from his hand, and started talking to Nicoline. "Nic," he said. "It's Martel. Where are you, exactly? Can you tell me the address of where you're staying?"

I suddenly felt cold. Freezing, as if I were drenched in a bucket of ice water. "I have to go," I mumbled, backpedaling out the door. Fitz barely even nodded; he was focused on Nicoline. Martel was speaking rapidly, relaying information to Fitz. They were working in tandem. They didn't need me. I was just the one that answered the phone.

I'd always prided myself on being brave, on standing my ground when it mattered most. But I supposed that when worst came to worst, I was a coward, just like all the poor pitiful souls I'd ragged on so many times before.

I ran out into the warm, humid summer night. It had rained earlier that day, and the ground was damp and squishy beneath my bare feet. I slogged through the mud, running faster and faster, heart thumping wildly in my chest. I wanted to get lost. My veins thrummed wildly, and before I knew it, I was sprinting through fields of corn, nearly trampling the stalks. Leaves whipped my face in the darkness. My chest heaved, and I skidded to a stop, head pounding.

I raised a hand to my forehead and realized that I'd been crying. It had been years since I'd cried. The last time in memory was four years ago, when I was twelve and hapless and Lovett had been drafted into the war.

"Don't go," I'd whispered, lower lip wobbling. You weren't supposed to have a favorite sibling – you were supposed to love all your brothers and sisters equally – but I loved Lovett the best. I always had, since I was a little girl, six years old while he was twelve. We used to play games together, minds clean and empty and airy as only children's are. He would trek through the farm alongside Enfin and me, a third step of footsteps, hushed and near-silent on the spongy ground. We would fish in the creek nearby for crawdads, shimmy up trees and watch leaves spiral to the ground, pretend to be orphans in the olden days, abandoned and far from home.

"I have to," he'd replied, and although his face was calm and steadier than ever, the expression on his face was what really did me in – sorrow and regret, guilt and worry, anxiety and fear.

Now, years later, sitting in the middle of a muddy cornfield, I was crying again, because my sister was lost, all the way in California, trapped in the maze of her own mind.

"You alright?"

I shrieked, leaping to my feet. It was pitch-black outside, the sky as black as tar, and the only light came from the hazy glow of a cigarette. A plume of bluish smoke drifted down, hovering near my lips, and I took in a shaky breath. "What… who are you?"

I heard an exhale. "You know who I am. You've seen me before."

I peered into the night, squinting. "You've got to be shitting me." My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I found I was right – it really was the strange man from before, right before the storm struck weeks ago, standing in a cornfield at midnight, smoking a cigarette.

"No," he said dryly, taking a drag. "I'm not."

I stood shakily. "Are you going to kidnap me?"

I heard a laugh, more of a low rumble than anything else. "No. Why on earth would I want to kidnap you?"

"I don't know. Why do creepers usually stand out in cornfields in the middle of the night?"

The man paused. "Let's just say I'm not like most ordinary people."

"Great, me neither. I'm still having this conversation."

He laughed again, this time a full belly laugh. It seemed to echo, reverberating against the sky. "You don't scare easy, do you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No." I crossed my arms. "I don't." _I don't think so, anyway._

"I like that," he said quietly, exhaling. "People are too timid nowadays."

We stood there in silence. I studied him. He was enshrouded in darkness, and yet I thought I saw sunglasses on his face; the same enormous black ones he'd been wearing years ago. I was just about to ask him if he'd accidentally superglued his Ray-Bans to his nose when he spoke. "So. Why were you crying?"

"I wasn't," I said, scrubbing at my face furiously.

He exhaled smokily. "You weren't sitting there just a few seconds ago, sobbing?"

"Nope."

"Hmm." He flicked a few embers off his cigarette. "Must've imagined it."

"Must have."

"I see."

"Do you, now. How fascinating."

Silence ensued. He finished off his cigarette, dropping it to the soil and grinding it under the heel of his boot. He pulled out another box from his pocket, along with a lighter, and I blurted out, "Can I have one?"

He paused. "You smoke?"

"It's the seventies. Everyone smokes."

He shrugged. "Fair enough." He lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I took it, lifting it to my lips and inhaling. I coughed, the smoke lodging in my throat. I took another drag, and the cough disappeared. Truth be told, I hadn't smoked in months – Fitz and my father were the diehard smokers of our family – but it only took me a few seconds to get back in the rhythm.

"What's your name?" I said, flicking the ash off of my cig.

He was quiet for a long time, and I wasn't certain he was going to respond. "Hmm."

"'Hmm'? That's your name?" I asked incredulously.

"No, that's not my name." He lit another cigarette, lifting it to his lips. "I'm just not sure you're ready to hear my name."

"What? You know my name." I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm still not sure how, but you do." I took a nervous drag. "You know, I'm really starting to question my still having this conversation."

"You're not ready to hear how I know your name," he said, "and you're not ready to hear my name, either."

"Fine. Where did you come from, then? I haven't seen you around here before."

He shrugged. "Let's just say I come from New York City."

"I have an aunt who lives in New York City."

He chuckled. "In case you were wondering, I haven't ever met her. That I know of, anyway."

"I'm not that much of a small-town girl," I said, a bit indignant. "I know there are lots of people in New York City. I'm just trying to make conversation. If you don't want to have a conversation with me, fine. I'll go." I turned around to leave, but he caught my arm. His grip was tight.

"Don't go," he said, his voice low.

I turned around slowly. His hand had sent an electric shock up my arm.

I was no stranger to electric shocks. It was the seventies, after all, and though I was no Nicoline, with her 'make love, not war', I certainly wasn't a chaste, promise-ring-esque virgin. I wasn't a virgin at all, actually, having lost my virginity back in May in the back of Freddie O'Ryan's dinged-up Chevy. We'd broken up three days later, when he went back to his longtime girlfriend Mary Welk.

What disturbed me was the fact that I felt it from him. I didn't even know this man, whoever he was. I knew nothing about him. And yet…

"Um," I said, staring at his hand on my arm.

He withdrew. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's… Um…" I swallowed. "It's alright. Really."

He dragged a hand through his hair. "My name is Ares."

I was a bit taken aback. "What? Like the Greek god of war?"

His head snapped up. "You know about that?"

"Of course I know," I said. "I read all the old Greek myths when I was a kid. You know, the one about the guy that couldn't stop staring at his reflection or whatever- Narcissus, right? And the one about the centaur dude that trained all the heroes, the one about that one god – what was his name – that fell down from the mountain-"

"Hephaestus. Yeah," he said, scratching his head. "Those. Myths." He let out a forced laugh, taking a drag on his cigarette.

I gave him a small smile. "Well," I said. "That's a step in the right direction, at least. While you're at it, want to tell me how you know my name?"

"I, uh…" He stopped, as if he were thinking about his response. Or thinking _up_ his response. "I was just passing through. I'm from New York – I'm on my way to the West Coast. I wanted something to eat, but I was strapped for cash. I've been in town for a few weeks, and in early June, I, uh… took some food. From your garden. I worked some jobs here and there, and I wanted to pay you back for the food that I stole – just some corn, but fair is fair – and I asked around, and found out that a French family lived here. Some kid told me that there was a girl living at the farm named Libre. They told me your brothers' names, too, Marcus and Fitz, but I think Lovett was the one that went away."

"He got drafted," I said quietly. "Into the war."

Ares nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"Well," I said. "That makes sense, anyway. Though I wish you would've told me the truth sooner."

He looked uncomfortable. "The truth," he said. "Yeah."

An awkward silence ensued. "So," I hedged. "You said you were just passing through. When are you going to head west?"

"I don't know," Ares said with a shrug, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Depends. I was thinking of hanging around here for a while. It's kind of nice, actually."

"It is, isn't it?" I said. "So… Does that mean that I can see you again?"

"Would you want to?" he asked.

I shrugged. "You still owe us that money for the corn."

"Oh, that's right," he said, digging in the pocket of his jacket.

"Don't," I said, placing a hand on his arm. He stopped. I took my hand away, stubbing my cigarette out underneath my boot. "Pay me back later."

"Later," he said. "You know that means you'd have to see me again, right?"

A small smile played at my lips rebelliously. "Yeah," I said. "I know."

And then I turned around, disappearing into the darkness, my secret grin hidden by the night.

For one, blessed moment, I was thinking about Ares, my thoughts far as could be from my long-lost sister.

* * *

When I got back to the farmhouse, Martel was waiting for me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee black as obsidian. "Hey," he said noncommittally.

And that was when it all came back rushing back to me: Nicoline, Fitz, Martel. The reason I had run into the night in the first place, disappearing into the rows of corn and soybeans, settling down on the ground and crying for the sister I had lost, just like when I had cried for the brother that had gone, perhaps forever. At that one single word uttered from my brother: _Hey._

It was funny, how easy it had been to forget. Or maybe it was more sad than comical.

"Hey," I said quietly. I hugged my arms to my chest. "I… You haven't been waiting up for me long, have you?"

"Nah," Martel said. He took a sip of coffee. "Fitz and I just got off the phone about fifteen minutes ago. He saw you take off."

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. "I'm… I just got…" I couldn't go on.

"I know," he said, taking another swig.

I swallowed. "Did… What happened with Nicoline?"

"She was at a party in the Valley," Martel said, putting the coffee down beside him. "It seems she's moved on from San Francisco. We called the local cops in the area, got them to shut down the party and check on Nic. We don't know for sure, but it seemed like she was pretty close to OD'ing. She'd taken acid, cocaine, had a couple cigarettes, not to mention pot…" He sighed. "It wasn't good, Li."

"Shit," I said quietly, briefly closing my eyes. "Is she going to be okay?"

"We don't know yet," Martel said. "We think so. The cops gave us the number of a hospital in the area. In the morning, we'll call and see if they took her in, ask about her vitals."

"What happens if she's not there?"

He chewed his lower lip. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Oh." I shivered, making my way over to where Martel was standing. I leaned against the counter. "I really am sorry for running off."

"I know, Lili," he said. He looked exhausted, I noticed. Exhausted and drawn, the bags under his eyes like wilted petunia petals. "But you can't do that anymore. We were worried enough about Nic without having to worry about you wandering around the farm late at night. It's not safe."

I looked down at my hands. "I got scared." My voice quivered.

"I know that, too. But you keep on shouting at _Maman_ to treat you like an adult. If you want to be treated like one, Li, act like one." He sniffed the air. "You smell like a pack of Lucky Strikes."

"I had a cigarette," I said.

"You smoke?" Martel asked, looking puzzled.

I nearly laughed at his expression. "Not usually. Only on very special occasions."

"And this constitutes as…"

"Yeah."

"Ah." Martel took a sip of coffee. "Where'd you get the cig?"

"I… uh…" My cheeks reddened. "Fitz left his pack out on the porch. I bummed one from him. But don't tell, because I'd really like to live to see my seventeenth birthday."

Martel's expression was unreadable. "Fitz left a pack out on the porch," he said slowly.

"Yeah. That's what happened."

"Hmm." He took another drink of coffee. "Well, at any rate. We'll tell Maman and Papa about Nicoline in the morning, right before we call the hospital. We'll figure out what to do from there." He stood, sinewy hands cupping his mug. "I'm going to go get some sleep. I suggest you do the same."

I watched him leave. "Martel?" I asked.

He turned around. "Yeah?"

I gulped, suddenly feeling very silly. "Have you ever…" My cheeks tinged pink. "Have you ever felt things for someone? Someone you – you know, probably shouldn't like?"

Martel just looked at me. "I think you know I have."

My ears were burning. "Of course," I said. For a moment, I had forgotten about Martel's own romantic troubles. "I'm sorry. I just-"

"You'll know if it's right, Lili," Martel said, shaking his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.

"If what's right?"

"The two of you," Martel said. "Together. You'll know, deep down." And then he left me, pulling himself up the stairs, wooden boards creaking under his weight.

I just stood there, torn and confused, an unasked question on my lips: _How?_

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you all liked it! Have a good spring break, everyone (or if your spring break is over, I hope you had a good time)! Please review and let me know what you thought of the chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4, Pt I

**A/N: I'm back, after a long while. After a hectic week of vacations, crappy Time Warner internet failing us yet again, and general mayhem, I arrive with a long-overdue update. I have a feeling the end of this chapter won't make anyone too happy either...**

 **Note #1: Thanks to the fab Rosestream, who demonstrated her quick and excellent beta skills again. Yay!**

 **Note #2: Thanks bunches to all fabulous reviewers! Internet brownies are coming your way!**

 **Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Percy Jackson.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary: You know where to look.**

* * *

Four

The next morning, I woke to the sound of my mother's agitated screams.

I jolted upright, a stray strand of dark hair falling into my vision. Sunlight peeked through my begonia-patterned curtains, spilling over the wooden floorboards. It was quiet in my room; hushed. Birdcalls leaked through the windowpanes, whippoorwills and woodpeckers. I groaned, rubbing my eyes, and the room gradually swam into focus.

I sniffed my shirt. I still smelled like cigarettes. My mother would have a fit.

A shrill shriek sliced through the air, I jumped, reminded of what had jerked me from sleep in the first place. I tossed the covers aside, yanking on a hoodie and a pair of flip-flops, clomping downstairs noisily. My family was huddled around the kitchen table, my mother clutching the phone with her hand clapped over her mouth. My father was ashen-faced, Fitz and Martel both grim.

I felt as if I'd stumbled into a new world – a new, different world. Something had shifted, tilted on its axis. "What happened?" I asked, my voice rusty from sleep. "What did I miss?"

Fitz shook his head almost imperceptibly, while Martel seemed fixated on our mother. "Are you quite certain?" my mother asked, her voice trembling. "Positive?"

A pause. I could hear someone's muffled voice on the other side of the line. I slipped downstairs and went to stand by Martel and Fitz, sparing a glance at the clock. 10:03. I had overslept, then, the sunrise having come and gone hours ago. I should have been up, but for whatever reason, no one had bothered to wake me. Or perhaps they hadn't even thought to. I wasn't necessary for the conversation, after all. It was Fitz and Martel that really knew what was going on; I had skipped out into the night before I'd gotten the details.

"Alright," my mother whispered, a tear oozing out of her eye and streaking down her cheek, stained black with her heavy mascara. It was terrifying to see my mother cry: if she was out of control, what chance in hell did I have? "I understand. Thank you." She set the receiver down, seeming so fragile she might break.

Silence hung heavy and thick, suspended in the air like plastic stars dangling from a baby mobile. I cleared my throat. "What happened?"

My father's shoulders seemed to cave in. "Nicoline overdosed," he said. His hands were shaking. "She's at the hospital in critical condition."

"At least, according to the description we gave of her," Martel said.

"It's her," Fitz said sourly. "Depend on it."

I felt all the blood drain from my face and steadied myself on the counter. "I need a cigarette," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. Without a word, Fitz reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out a pack of Marlboros, and handed one to me, along with a box of matches. I looked at him, utterly surprised. Fitz never shared his cigarettes; he hoarded them.

"Go outside," he told me. "Don't make _Maman_ upset."

I glanced at my father, but he was consoling my mother, though he looked in need of consolation himself. I then spared a look at Martel, who nodded minutely. "Go," he told me. "I'll find you later. There's no use being here. _Maman_ and Papa need to be left alone."

"Okay," I whispered softly, taking the cigarette and the box of matches. I thought about asking Fitz for a second cigarette to pass the time, but then decided not to push my luck. I pushed open the door, walking into the morning air.

It was bright and sunny outside. It was strange; it seemed as if the sky should be dour and grumpy, the color of ashes in a fireplace, but it was a brilliant blue, the sort you only saw on paint chips in home-improvement stores. I stuffed the cig and matches into the pocket of my hoodie and began to walk over toward the livestock. I was done with cornfields. When I thought of cornfields, I thought of last night, of Nicoline, and of Ares.

I went over to the barn. A spider skittered down the door as I passed, but I hardly even reacted. I'd spent sixteen years growing up on a farm – they didn't bother me anymore. Snakes and spiders, I could handle. Overdosed sisters and strange boys in the cornfields were a different matter entirely.

I pushed open the door, walking along the stalls of cows. In the corner, the barn cat, Wilma, was sunning herself on a bale of hay, flopped over, furry belly turned up to the sky. I cracked a smile and walked over to her, sitting beside her and rubbing her stomach. Wilma started, but then began to purr contentedly.

With shaking fingers, I drew the cigarette out of my hoodie and lit it, inhaling. If I didn't watch myself, I was going to get hooked, but right then, in the early morning sunlight, my whole world crashing down around me, I couldn't bring myself to care.

"Hey, there."

This time, I wasn't even surprised. I was almost expecting it. "Ares," I said, greeting the figure standing in the doorway. I studied him, taking him in more closely.

He was wearing, more or less, the same clothes as before, including the clunky sunglasses. Faint stubble covered his chin, however, and though his hair was far from lank or greasy – it was smooth and sable – it was a bit longer than I'd last seen it. I estimated him to be a few years older than me, maybe eighteen or twenty. Not a man then, a boy. Younger than Lovett, at least by my estimation.

Ares stroked a cow's chin. "You alright?"

"Hell no," I said, letting out a choked laugh. "How about you? How's your day been going?"

He shrugged. "Alright, I guess." Ares turned toward me, concern etched into his features. "What's the matter?"

"What isn't the matter?" I said, taking another drag on my cigarette. "You know, I never used to smoke. Only started last year, and that was because stupid Missy Bryant said you were a loser if you didn't have an addiction to tobacco. I quit in May. Put me through hell." I blew out a plume of smoke. "Family never even knew why. They probably thought I was on some month-long PMS." I recoiled, glancing up at Ares. "I mean, uh-"

He laughed. "It's alright. I've got a sister." His face darkened. "Quite a few, actually."

"Really? How many?"

He gave a sideways shrug, averting his eyes. "You know. Some here and there. It's easy to lose track."

"What?" I furrowed my eyebrows. "How can you lose track?"

He let out a breath. "My father uses the term 'married' lightly."

"Oh," I said, my cheeks hot. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"It's not your fault," he said. "It's my father's, if any. And my mother's, for being such an abominable pain in the ass." As he said this, thunder rumbled in the distance.

My eyebrows furrowed. "Is it supposed to storm today?"

"No," Ares said, frowning. He suddenly looked angry, his mouth tight. I saw what looked like flames peek out of the top of his customary sunglasses, and my eyes widened. A second later, however, the fire was gone, extinguished. Must have been a trick of the light, I thought, shaken, and took a hasty drag on my cigarette.

"So, anyway," I said, feeling awkward.

"Anyway," Ares repeated. He pulled out a box of Marlboros from his pocket and fumbled for a cig. "What's really the matter?"

I exhaled a stream of ash-gray smoke. "My sister."

"Hmm," Ares said, pulling out a cigarette and wedging it in his fingers. He stuffed the box of Marlboros back in his jacket. "Your sister."

"Her name is Nicoline," I said, taking a drag. I leaned back against the wall and shut my eyes. "She's in the hospital, and it's her own damn fault." My eyes popped open.

I realized that when I heard the news about Nicoline, I was angry. Not sad, not mournful; angry. I was furious that she'd done this to our family, upset the shaky equilibrium in our household from thousands of miles away. I was furious that she'd done this to me. It was selfish, to be angry, but just then, I couldn't bring myself to care. It was the truth. I had a short fuse and an innate sense of justice, and that wasn't about to change.

Ares studied me. He pulled out a Bic lighter from his pocket, lit his cigarette, and took a drag, stuffing the lighter back in his pocket. "I might not be a psychologist, or a big old softie like some people," he said, "but I might just know the cure for your particular problem."

"Really," I said dryly, taking another drag.

"Really," he responded. He walked over, outstretching his hand. I stared at his massive palm. "Do you trust me?"

I blinked. "Do I trust you?"

"Yeah," Ares said. "Do you trust me?"

I hesitated. "Screw it," I muttered, and grabbed his hand. He pulled me up to a standing position. Wilma opened her eyes, yawning sleepily, and stared at us. "Yeah. I trust you."

Ares grinned. "Good. Follow me."

* * *

I trusted Ares. I didn't know why, not at the time. It was as if he had tugged some unseen cord in my heart, pulled my restrictions free and loosened my morals with his cigarettes and shroud of mystery.

It was a mistake, trusting Ares. I know that now. Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty. In the moment, vision is blurred.

And boy, oh boy, was my vision smudged as hell.

* * *

Ares led me to the road. We waded through my mother's flower garden, silky petals laying butterfly kisses on my shins. My mother was a gifted gardener; her thumbs were emerald green. Ladybugs scuttled over rich vermilion azaleas, a yellow-and-black garden spider strung a filmy web between two thick-stalked flowers with creamy petals and drooping blossoms, and a cluster of pale white impatiens were clustered near the base of the soil, dirt flecking their leaves, each petal marked with a magenta brushstroke.

Ares took my by the wrist, leading me through towering cornstalks. We walked in the shade, hot Ohio sun simmering. If I cracked an egg on a driveway, I had a feeling it'd fry up, sizzle-sizzle, on the pavement in five minutes. Ohio was like that – freezing in the winter, dripping ice and heavy snow, and blistering in the summer, enough to make the air twisted and deformed with heat.

Finally, we reached the road. I glanced down at my clothing – a pair of plaid boxer shorts, a bally sweatshirt, and a pair of floppy plastic sandals. "Um," I said. "I'm not sure I'm really dressed to go much of anywhere."

He smiled. "You'll be fine." He took my hand, and we walked side-by-side down the road, where the crumbly brown dust met the faded asphalt. Splintery telephone poles jutted up from the soil, ropy black cords strung between the beams. I could almost hear the hum from the telephone lines, and I imagined I was eavesdropping on other people's conversations. _Hello, darling. Good morning. How d'you do?_

Ares brought me to a massive motorcycle mounted by the side of the road. I gulped. It looked like a silver beast, chrome glinting in the late morning sunlight, black leather stark against the muted landscape. "Um."

He reached down by the side of the motorcycle and lifted two helmets. He put one on and tossed the other to me. I caught it, staring at the helmet as if it were a foreign object. Ares tilted his head, a quizzical expression on his face. "What? You never been on a motorcycle before?"

"No, actually," I said, still staring. "Um… is it, you know, safe?"

"The motorcycle?" Ares laughed. "Yeah, it's safe." He swung one leg over the seat and mounted the motorcycle, starting the ignition. He revved the engine. "C'mon. Hop on."

For a moment – just the barest flicker of a millisecond – I paused. I glanced back toward the farmhouse, the curling jade vine just barely visible from our distance. "I…" I trailed off, still uncertain. "I don't…."

And then I thought of what awaited me when I returned to the house. We would have to figure out some way to deal with Nicoline, no doubt. My father and mother would probably take off for California, and Fitz and Martel would want to go, too. Someone would have to stay to watch the farm and keep tabs on my grandmother, and a squabble would ensue, all over who got to tend to our burn-out, druggie sister and her pathetic addictions.

I set my jaw and strapped on my helmet. At least with Ares, there was adventure. Chance. Something new.

I got on the motorcycle behind him, yelping at the hotness of the seat. "Wrap your arms around me," he instructed.

I was a bit taken aback. I wasn't that far gone.

Yet.

He chuckled. "You'll fall off if you don't. My motives aren't entirely lascivious."

"Oh," I said, my cheeks pinking. I wrapped my arms around his waist, my stomach dropping when I encountered a rock-hard stomach. Ares was pretty buff, for a sketchy guy hanging out on a farm. _Idiot,_ I thought to myself, but tightened my grip all the same. "Um… what does lascivious mean?" I asked, my voice slightly uneven.

I felt rather than heard Ares's smile. "Figure it out," he said, and sped off down the highway. I let out a shriek, half exhilaration and half sheer fear. I leaned into Ares, inhaling his scent – cigarette smoke and soap – and let out another whoop, this one full of glee. This one for me.

* * *

I didn't know how long we drove, the sun rising higher and higher in the sky, the stale summer air turning my chestnut hair into a whirlwind. We drove in the shade afforded by the towering oak and maple trees in some places, stray leaves skittering across the road, and in broad daylight in other stretches, sun beating down on our backs. I clung to Ares the whole time, occasionally burying my face in the back of his shirt, memorizing his scent. _Cigarettes and soap._

Ares finally rolled to a stop in the middle of nowhere.

Or, at least, that was what it looked like to me. The middle of nowhere, surrounded by stretches of farmland; vivid green soybean fields with flaky soil and shimmering wheat grasses, glinting and flaxen in the sunlight. The interstate cut right through it, a strip of pothole-ridden asphalt. We'd driven along the same scenery for miles, occasionally passing great big silos rising up from the ground or bright red barns with white trimming. It was my home, the fields of crops and the blue blanket dangling overhead, but it was also the middle of nowhere, a no man's land if there ever was one.

Ares stopped at a low-slung building in the middle of a gravel parking lot. It had a faded red roof and chipping beige paint. A sign in the front of the gravel parking lot read _The Root Beer Stand_ in messily hand-painted letters. It looked to be deserted, and I arched an eyebrow at Ares.

He just grinned, dismounting the motorcycle and tossing his helmet near the thick tire. I did the same, and took his hand, almost as a reflex. It was strange, this kinship I felt with Ares. It wasn't as if we knew each other – we'd only met once or twice, after all, and so much about us was unshared. And yet, I felt something with him. I felt comfortable in my own skin around him. I didn't have to hide myself. It was a nice feeling.

"Ronnie!" Ares shouted, walking up to the building. A counter jutted out of the cinderblock, and a window was open, a disgruntled, middle-aged man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles visible behind it. He gave me an appraising glance, and my cheeks reddened.

"Ares," the man – Ronnie, I guessed – drawled, slow and heavy. It wasn't the kind of Midwestern accent you got out in the Ohio/Indiana region, set under the saggy tit that was the Great Lakes. It was the sort of drawl you got down in the southeast, in the mosquito-infested marshes set in the shade of massive ash trees, with wide trunks and roots that dug deep into the loamy earth, where the gators roamed free. "What can I do for you and your girl?" He pronounced 'girl' as _'guuuuuurl',_ dragging out the u for miles. He had a wad of black chewing tobacco lodged in his cheek.

Ares squeezed my hand, and I glanced at him, a bit surprised. I hadn't pegged Ares as being the protective type. "Two cheese coneys and two root beers, please."

This time, I was more than taken aback. I was shocked. "You know what cheese coneys are?"

* * *

For those of you who don't know, I will now take this opportunity to quickly describe a cheese coney.

A cheese coney is, in essence, a hot dog topped with chili. It's coated in a layer of yellow mustard, chopped onions, and shredded cheese. It's indigenous to Cincinnati – almost exclusive to Cincinnati, really. At this point, I'd only had a cheese coney once or twice in my life, when we'd taken a day trip down to the city, piled in the back of our old station wagon. The cheese coney is, admittedly, almost disgustingly American.

But it's also disgustingly delicious.

* * *

Ares shrugged. "I stumbled across the stand a few weeks ago," he explained. "I got educated."

I smiled. "Better watch yourself, or you'll become one of us, New Yorker."

He diverted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck. "Uh… Yeah. That's right. Guess my pizza-loving ways are coming to an end." He emitted a forced laugh, and though I eyed him suspiciously, I didn't push the matter any further. I supposed I was afraid to find out the real truth. I liked this Ares, the boy from the big apple with a penchant for cheese coneys and adventure. He was heading out west eventually, but for now, it looked as if he might just have time for little old me, Libre Marie Bellerose, bilingual Ohioan farm girl standing at five-foot-two, with messy brown hair, a spattering of freckles, and green eyes.

Hmm.

Ronnie nodded, and disappeared back into the building for a moment. When he reappeared, he was holding two plastic soda cups, both filled with brownish, bubbly liquid. Root beer. Ronnie listed off the price, and Ares pushed what looked to be a gold coin or two across the counter, though I didn't quite catch it.

"You know the deal, Ronnie," Ares said, the golden coins winking in the sunlight.

"Um," I said. "Ares, where did you-"

"I know the deal," Ronnie answered, much to my surprise, nodding sagely. He pocketed the gold coins and bustled around behind the counter, and Ares turned around, shooting me a smile.

"Don't worry about it," he said. I gave him a suspicious look, but did as he asked. He looped his arm around mine, leading me over to a wooden picnic table. There were about four or five such picnic tables, all scattered haphazardly across the gravel, weedy dandelions and thistle poking up through the splintery wood. A pirate wolf spider scuttled over the top of one, and I wrinkled my nose.

We sat down at a (relatively) spider-free table, still linked arm-in-arm like some old-fashioned couple. "So," Ares said, releasing me as I sprawled out over a table. The sun felt good on my cheeks, warm and sweet-smelling. The scent of car exhaust still lingered on the air – we were, after all, right next to an interstate – but I chose to block that particular smell out, focusing on the breeze of pollen and fresh dirt. Soon, the cicadas would gather in the treetops, buzzing all day long in the thick heat. "Tell me about your sister."

I groaned. "Let's not talk about Nic," I said, shading my eyes and taking a sip of root beer. It was surprisingly cold and refreshing, zinging on my tongue. "Mm," I said, looking down at the soda. "This is good."

"So what do you want to talk about, then?" Ares asked, sitting down on the bench below me. He glanced up, eyes still hidden underneath his sunglasses. "Tell me something about yourself."

I shrugged. "I speak French."

He looked taken aback. "What?"

I giggled. " _T'es beau, monsieur."_

A slow smile crept onto Ares's face. "Did you just call me handsome in French?"

I froze. "No. You know French?"

"Maybe." Ares was grinning like a lunatic, and my cheeks felt like they were on fire. _"T'es trés beau, mon chéri."_

 _You are very beautiful, my darling._

"Oh." I swallowed, noticing he had dimples. He really was handsome; I wasn't lying. He had nice lips and an even nicer smile – it made the faded scars on his cheeks and neck disappear, made my heart leap into my throat.

" _Trés beau,"_ he repeated, staring at me. _Very beautiful_. I wished, not for the first time, that I could see his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "Libre."

"Lili," I corrected, without even thinking.

 _"Que?"_ Ares said. _What?_ I felt dizzy and lightheaded, and more than a little woozy. Maybe the root beer was going to my head, the carbonated bubbles freeing my morals and setting them loose. Nicoline's voice echoed in my head. _Make love, not war. Make love, not war. Make love, not war._

"My name," I said. "Most everyone calls me Lili."

"Lili," Ares echoed, his lips curved.

"Yeah." My throat felt dry, parched as the Sahara. "Lili."

"Kids!" Ronnie called from the stand, making me jump. Ares's lips tightened and he looked away. He seemed almost disappointed, though I supposed it was wishful thinking to believe that he was. "Your dogs are ready!"

"I'll be right back," Ares muttered, pushing himself up. I watched him go, an odd feeling lingering in my chest. He took two cheese coneys, each in a paper container, and brought them back to the table. "Here," he said, handing one to me. "Eat up."

"Will do," I said, still watching him. I had a strange feeling, a nagging sensation.

It didn't go away for a long while afterwards.

* * *

I was falling in love.

To this day, I still don't know if that love was a result of whatever godly tricks he was playing on me – and knowing Ares as I do now, I'm sure there were quite a few. But whatever the reason, whatever the cause, I was falling head-over-heels for him. I don't know if he ever really loved me. It was so long ago, the recollections were blurred in my memory, barely reachable, barely touchable. Maybe he loved me, maybe he didn't. I don't know.

All that really mattered was that I loved him enough to trust him.

And just like the trust I had for him, my love was a mistake.

* * *

I spent hours with Ares at the root beer stand, just talking. We had conversations around mouthfuls of cheese coneys and sips of root beer, our stomachs poking out – or, at least, mine was – and our tongues tingling from carbonation. I told him about my parents, about growing up on the farm, about my eighth birthday present (learning how to shoot and aim a shotgun) and how my first-ever boyfriend, Freddie O'Ryan, broke my heart. Ares told me that Freddie O'Ryan sounded like a douche, and I laughed. I even told him about Nicoline and Lovett, about how I was angry at my sister and missed my brother more than anything.

By the time we were back on his motorcycle, the sky was streaked purple, the sun hanging low, brushing against the horizon. By the time we got back to the farm, the sky had completely darkened, from baby blue to ballpoint-pen-blue. Ares stopped the motorcycle, parking it on the side of the road. I dismounted, regretful at having to leave him. It was strange – I hadn't known him long, but it felt as if I'd known him for eons.

"So," Ares said. His face was shadowed in darkness. It was that stage between evening and night, the branches of the oak trees silhouetted against the sky. I could just barely see the planes of his face, his tall stature, the outline of his motorcycle. He hopped off, standing beside me. "I guess this is it."

"I'll see you again, won't I?" I asked, feeling a bit foolish.

"If you want," he said, some unreadable undercurrent lacing his words.

"I do." I smiled. "It was nice getting to know you, Ares."

"It was nice getting to know you, too." For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn't. He backed away, swinging his leg over his motorcycle and starting the ignition. "And yes, to answer your question," he said. I couldn't see his smile, but I knew it was there. "You'll see me again."

And then he drove off, his motorcycle leaving a trail of exhaust in his wake.

A secret smile still playing at my lips, I plunged into the soybean fields, heading for the light emanating from the windows of the farmhouse. The day had started off as a disaster, but ended laced in golden filigree.

* * *

Or so I had thought.

* * *

Fitz and Martel were waiting for me when I got home.

They were both sitting at the kitchen table in silence. I pushed open the kitchen door, still wearing my secret smile, but upon seeing Fitz and Martel, it quickly disappeared, Ares's endorphin high wearing off within seconds. They both looked as if they had been punched in the gut, pale and wan.

"What?" I said. My heart started tapping an unsteady rhythm. "What's happened?"

Fitz glanced up. "Good," he said, his voice croaky. His eyes were red, as if he'd been crying. He cleared his voice, scrubbing his face with his hands. "You're home."

I felt fear mounting within me. "What's happened? You both look…"

"Wretched," Fitz finished, emitting a bitter laugh.

"Is it Nicoline?" I asked, swallowing. "Is she alright?"

Neither of them said anything. The silence dragged on long and heavy.

"What happened to Nicoline?" I whispered.

It was Martel who finally answered, his eyes filled with tears. I had never once seen any of my three brothers cry. It terrified me. "What happened?" I shrieked at them, tears of my own spilling down my cheeks. Deep down, I knew the answer, but I needed to hear it said out loud. I couldn't make myself believe what I knew. "What happened?" I repeated, my voice broken and quiet this time.

"She's dead, Lili," Martel said finally; heavily. "Nicoline is dead."

* * *

 **END OF PART I**

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	5. Part II, July: Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm back, thanks to the wizard skills of my beta, Rosestream. Here's the start of Part II, which is both much shorter and much darker than Part I. Whereas Part I encompassed the month of June, Part II covers July. Part III will cover August, and Part IV will cover autumn to spring. Check back on Mondays and Fridays for updates.**

 **Note #1: Thanks for beta-reading go to the wonderful Rosestream!**

 **Note #2: Thanks again go to all reviewers! You guys are the bright spots in my day!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. I wish I did, but I don't. I don't even own a fully-functional computer.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary: Why do I even keep putting this here still?**

* * *

 **Part II**

 **July**

One

Six years ago, when I was young, back when Nicoline was ten and I was six, we got lost in the woods together. One moment, we were trekking through squelchy mud and wading ankle-deep through the creek, and before we knew it, there was no trail of breadcrumbs to lead us back.

When you're in the middle of nowhere, nothing but cash crops on either side and stretches of flat plains far as the eye can see, you invent mischief and drama. Lovett was my favorite sibling – before he went to Vietnam, we were close as a brother and sister could be – but in the early days, before she reached her first high and came tumbling down the other side, Nicoline and I were close, too. We were sisters, after all, in a household with a crazy French mother and a horde of boys. It was a matter of survival.

We played pretend together. Nicoline and I would walk to the creek, a little inlet of water that cut through the farmland, weaving a stream of silty water south. If you followed the babbling brook far enough, the cold water sluicing over your toes and seeping into your shoes, you reached a patch of woodland, secret and safe and serene. We would play orphans, pretend to be Hansel and Gretel, or become some sort of superhero on a magical quest. Nicoline and I would scavenge the soil for sticks and brandish them around like wands, shouting nonsense and pretending we were powerful witches or mages.

The day we got lost, we traveled too far from the farm. Night fell, and Nicoline and I huddled together, united against the darkness. "I don't wanna die," I'd kept babbling, over and over again, six years old and terrified, shadowed underneath the spiderwebbed branches, plastered up against my sister.

Nicoline had held me close. "Don't worry," she'd said. "I'll protect you." She'd leaned over, brandishing a twig. _"Haltor al… loccachini!"_ Nonsense, of course. But I didn't know that.

I'd stared at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Six-year-olds were gullible creatures. "Whoa," I'd breathed.

"I just banished all the bad creatures," Nicoline had told me matter-of-factly. "You don't have to worry now."

And I hadn't. I'd curled up in Nicoline's arms and fallen asleep, my cheek pressed against her knee. Nicoline held me all night long, protective and brave, back pressed against a rotting log, her own eyes eventually drooping shut of their own accord. She hadn't let me go, not once. Before she'd thought of herself, she'd thought of me.

In the morning, when the sun rose, streaking the sky the color of ripe strawberry juice, we were awakened by shouts. It was Lovett and my father – they had been searching for us all night. As it turned out, we hadn't been too far from the house after all. We'd just lost our way, unable to see the forest when we were trapped in the thick of it.

Ten years later, standing in the kitchen, those horrible words – _she's dead_ – echoing in my ears, I didn't think about her addictions. I didn't think about her, laying on a hospital bed, lips turned blue, heart cold and still in her chest. I didn't think about her and drugs that would become the end of my sister.

Instead, I thought of that night years ago, when Nicoline held me tight, protecting me against the monsters that lay feet away in the darkness. _Don't worry,_ she'd said. _I'll protect you._ I thought of how she'd wrapped her arms around me, my first line of defense, how she'd saved me from the creatures in the dark, and I wondered why I hadn't been able to do the same for her.

* * *

The funeral was scheduled for July 4, 1972, Independence Day. While we were mourning Nicoline's death, fireworks would be exploding overhead, showering down sparks of scarlet, cobalt, and white.

She had overdosed. This was what I had been told by Fitz and Martel, both of them sitting at the kitchen table haggardly, relaying the facts mechanically. There had been more than cocaine in her system. She'd been in a mess of drugs, a dizzying account that had gone in one ear and out the other. It wasn't something I wanted to remember. Nicoline had taken anything that was given to her. There was no saving her, not even close. That morning, she had been close to death. By noon, she _was_ dead.

I hadn't even felt it. In books and movies, the character always feels it when someone dies, like an invisible heartstring yanked in their chest. But I had no idea. I felt nothing, knew nothing. If not for my brothers, I would still know nothing, and that was the worst of all. My sister was dead, and I hadn't even known it.

My mother and father had gone to California to retrieve her body. My grandmother was upstairs, inconsolable. For the first time in recent memory, she had reacted, drawn away from the sky to lament the death of her oldest granddaughter.

Lovett was coming home. He had been granted one week's leave from Vietnam to attend the funeral. For the first time in four years, I would see my brother. I'd imagined seeing him again, getting to watch his shock at seeing his littlest sister all grown up. I'd fantasized about getting to see him again, but not like this.

Not like this.

There were other things that Martel and Fitz said, too, but that was all that mattered. My sister had died, and I hadn't been there. I'd been eating cheese coneys with a boy underneath the simmering June sun, laughing and feeling swoopy sensations in my stomach. The funeral was in eight days, my brother was coming home, and my grandmother was devastated.

There was only one thing that mattered in the end.

I hadn't been there.

* * *

Lovett was back before my parents were.

Not by much – he beat them by only a few hours. He was still in his army fatigues, his brow covered in sweat. He looked different. He had a close-shorn buzz-cut, but it was more than that. There was a haunted look in his eyes, but I didn't know if it was because of Vietnam's horrors, or the horror of waking up and finding out that your sister was dead. I wondered if he had felt it, or if he, like me, had been blindsided. Taken completely by surprise.

He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a hangdog expression pulling at his mouth. I was waiting for him on the porch, sitting on the wooden steps and smoking a cigarette. When I saw him, I didn't jump up and shriek in joy. I took another drag on my cigarette, watching his form – once long and lanky, now buff and muscled – make its way up the long walk, his shoulders drooped.

Lovett came up to the steps, pausing before my feet. "Hey," he said.

I exhaled gray smoke, stubbing my cigarette out on the steps. Without prelude, I straightened and threw my arms around my neck. His duffel bag slid to the ground and he hugged me back. "Hey," I said, my words muffled against his shirt.

We both stood like that for a while, both of us sobbing; for our sister, for our country, for death, and for life, but most of all, for not being there, for being far away when our sister went from a living person to a face in a photograph.

* * *

My mother and father had to drop off Nicoline's body at the funeral home; give her to the people who would clothe her in a white dress and place her in a coffin, hands folded neatly in a fig-leaf formation. That was why they were late.

We were all sitting in the living room, Fitz and Martel and Lovett and I, sitting and talking. Lovett refused to talk about Vietnam. "I'm here," he said. "I'm here, not miles away, and for once in my goddamn life, I want to remember what it is to be happy." He let out a choked, strangled laugh as Fitz wordlessly handed him a cigarette. Death, it seemed, had made my brother generous. "Thanks," Lovett said, taking the cig. "God knows I need it."

My parents came in, barely strong enough to push open the door. My mother looked as if she had wasted away before our eyes. Her hair fell in lank, greasy tangles, her skin was little more than papery folds, and her clothes were stained and wrinkled. My mother, who'd always insisted on being put-together, clean and organized, presentable above all else.

Her gaze fell on me – me, not Lovett, her son back from Vietnam, not on Fitz or on Martel. On me. "Oh," she said. "You are back."

I jerked back as if I'd been slapped. " _Maman_ ," I started.

"I would say get out of my sight," my mother said, advancing on me, redness coloring her cheeks, "but it seems you do that well enough on your own."

 _"Maman,"_ Lovett began, massaging his temples.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Begged; pleaded. It wasn't enough. _"Désolé, Maman."_

My mother's lower lip wobbled. "I am going to bed," she said. She looked at Lovett for the first time. "My son, welcome home."

And then she climbed the stairs, clinging to the railing as if without it, she might tumble down the stairs, close her eyes and never open them again.

My father followed in her wake. He didn't look at any of us.

* * *

The next day, Lovett asked me if I wanted to take a walk with him through the farm. I'd agreed, pushing my food around my plate. No one had bothered to cook any meals, but it didn't matter: none of us were hungry. I snatched food where I could get it; a few cherry tomatoes here, an apple there. It fed the gnawing in my stomach, but not the gnawing in my heart.

"So," Lovett said once we were outside. It hadn't rained once since Nicoline had died. All I wanted were gray skies and buckets of rain, but instead we got a deluge of sunshine. "How're you doing?"

I almost laughed. "How am I doing?" I dug in my pocket for a cigarette. Since Nicoline had died, I'd become a regular smoker. I now lived off of Marlboros and Lucky Strikes, smoked more often than I ate. "Do you want the honest answer?"

Lovett shrugged. "Why not?"

"Like shit," I answered, lighting my cigarette and lifting it to my lips. "Like shit on the bottom of some motherfucker's shoe." He stopped in his tracks for a moment, staring at me. "What?" I said irritably, taking another drag on the cigarette. "You asked for the truth."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I just… The last time I saw my little sister, she was obsessed with Roald Dahl. _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach._ Stuff like that." He shrugged, scratching his head. "Now she's smoking and saying 'motherfucker'."

"I'm sorry," I said, looking down at my shoes.

Lovett sighed. "Don't be sorry, Lili," he said, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. "It's alright. People are allowed to change."

I looked up at him. "What about you? You left me a virgin with an obsession for Roald Dahl and the Beatles, the kind of kid that didn't even know half the curse words I know now. I'd never even touched a cigarette. Now, the only part of me that's the same is the part that loves Roald Dahl and the Beatles."

He winced. "Even the part about being a virgin?"

"Even that part," I said flatly. "Which, if you care to know, was a colossal mistake."

"Aw, Jesus, Lili," he said. "I don't wanna know about your sex life."

"I've only ever done it missionary," I said, lips curving upward.

Lovett glared at me. "Fuck you," he said, and I snickered. It felt good to laugh, even if it was only a petty chuckle at my brother's expense.

"So," I said. "How are you?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Got a cigarette to spare?" I pulled a box of Marlboros and a lighter out of my jacket, handing him both. He pulled a cigarette out of the box. "I don't want to talk about Vietnam," he said, lighting the cig and handing both of his borrowed goodies back to me. "It might kill me if we do."

"Was it really that bad?" I asked quietly, stuffing the cig back into my pocket.

He shook his head, inhaling. "Worse." Lovett glanced at me. "I… Killing somebody changes a man. Killing people – plural – changes a man forever." He blew out a stream of smoke. Lovett never used to smoke, I noticed. Now he did it like a pro. "I've lost track of how many people I've killed. Of how many people I've seen die."

I didn't interrupt. This wasn't the sort of monologue you interrupted.

"I don't ever want to go back," he said, his voice breaking. His shoulders shook, and I realized, with a shock, my brother was crying. My cigarette hung limply in my fingers. "Not ever. It's ruined me, Lili. I don't ever want to go back, but I don't know how I could go on living, after all I've done. I don't want to go on, but I don't think I could go back to the way things were, either." He threw his cigarette to the ground, smashing it under his heel though he'd barely begun to smoke it. "Fuck this." He raked a hand through his hair. "I-"

"It's alright," I said quietly, clutching my cigarette like a lifeline. "It's alright."

Lovett nodded and walked toward the house, wiping his tears away, while I stood there in the middle of the dirt. Everybody leaves.

My mother still hadn't gotten out of bed.

* * *

I had decided not to see Ares again. It wasn't the sort of decision that came lightly. In my world full of darkness, with a brother ruined forever by war, a dead sister, and a mother incapable of getting out of bed, you didn't just toss away the one shining star. You cherished it.

But I'd abandoned my family. I'd always prided myself on being brave; tough as nails. Now I was beginning to wonder, however, if that had all been a lie. I'd thought I'd gotten my guts from my parents, that my siblings had our trademark bravery too, but death had made us weak. My mother, who had already lost so much, was being forced to bury her own child, and she had fallen apart. I didn't know if I'd ever get my crazy French mother back, or if this broken imposter was here to stay. My brother was raving like a lunatic. Half of the time, I'd catch him staring out into space, as if he were deep in the Vietnamese jungles still instead of back at home in Ohio, sitting at the kitchen table and munching on farm-fresh snow peas.

In the end, though, I'd left them. I was cowardly.

I had to atone for my mistakes, and stay away from Ares. He'd brought me away from them when they needed me most. It wasn't his fault, it was mine, but those were the facts. My decision to steer clear was final.

If only I had stayed true to my promise.

Once, I might've kept my promise. But not now.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	6. Chapter 2, Pt II

**A/N: I'm back on Friday as promised, thanks to my fab beta! How was everyone's week? I spent mine drowning in a pool of my own tears (nah, just kidding). Actually, I took standardized tests, failed a geometry test (I'm pretty sure, anyway. My geometry teacher is both fond of puns and unabashedly a cruel sadist. He just sat at his desk and smirked at us, watching us try to plead with our tear-filled eyes). ANYWAY, here's Chapter Two of Part II. Like I said before: Part II is sad, really almost disturbing. Thankfully, it's probably also the shortest portion of 1972. Right now, I'm writing Chapter Four of Part IV, which, to date, is MUCH longer. Of course, that's also because... Well, we'll get to that later. For right now, enjoy the return of Ares. I'll be looking out for reviews as you react to his actions.**

 **See, look? My geometry teacher has taught me well in the art of sadism. (Only not sexually. Oh, God, no. Why do I do this? I'm so sorry.)**

 **Note #1: Beta-reading credits go to the amazing Rosestream, whose feet I am currently kissing. Metaphorically speaking, of course. God, I swear, I'm not this much of a freak in real life. Mostly.**

 **Note #2: Thanks again go to all reviewers. I'm also (metaphorically) kissing your feet. Thanks bunches!**

 **Disclaimer: I am not Rick Riordan. As you may or may not have read above, I'm still struggling to get through geometry and maintain a 4.0, okay?**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary: Not bothering.**

* * *

Two

Three days before we buried my sister, I saw Ares again.

I was out in the barn, smoking a cigarette and petting Wilma absentmindedly, sprawled on a bay of sweet-smelling hay. I'd come to the barn often lately, to escape the feeling of overbearing grimness in my house. Between traumatized Lovett, broken Fitz, beaten Martel, my more-often-than-not drunk father, and my mother, who had yet to drag herself out of bed. We were a sorry bunch. I came out to the barn to think, to revel in the quiet, to stare at the cobwebbed ceiling rafters and listen to the rustling of the cattle in their stalls.

And most of all, to be angry at my sister for leaving us.

"Hey."

Ares snuck up on me, as he so often did. He appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses glinting in the late afternoon night. He looked steady and strong and rooted and safe, and I longed more than anything to wrap my arms around him, on the back of his motorcycle once again, burying my face in his shirt and inhaling his scent of soap and cigarettes. But I didn't. I stayed put, grabbed fistfuls of hay to use as an anchor. The straw scratched my skin, and I relished in the pain.

I smiled cynically. "My sister is dead."

That was it: I didn't build up to the fact, didn't break it gently. I just said it matter-of-factly, taking a long, heavy breath, my lungs building up and collapsing.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. He just set his jaw. "I'm sorry," he said lowly.

"Yeah," I said, stubbing out my cigarette. "Me, too."

Ares came over and sat by me. I didn't push him away, though just the previous day, I'd declared – firmly - that I wouldn't see him anymore. He picked me up and drew me into his lap, like Nicoline had done so many years ago and yet completely different at the same time, completely foreign, and I burrowed my face in his neck and inhaled, wetting his shirt with my tears. He didn't protest. He didn't do anything. He just held me. After I had finished crying, after Wilma had stopped purring, I spoke, my voice scratchy.

"I can't do this," I said, pushing myself up. Our faces were close, but I still couldn't see his eyes, shaded behind his sunglasses.

"Do what?" Ares asked.

"This," I said, gesturing emphatically. "I can't…" My voice hitched. "I can't get into a relationship with you right now. Not when…"

Ares held me tight. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?" I said, incredulous.

He arched an eyebrow. "Just because you're not interested doesn't mean I'm leaving town just yet."

"Ares," I said, my voice pleading. "I can't…"

His lips were close, and so was mine. It was funny, really, thinking back on it now. I kissed him, but I hadn't felt near as much desire as I had the other night, coming back from the Root Beer Stand. I felt desperation, desperation to feel something, to be comforted. I kissed him, and he kissed back.

When I left him, my hair was tousled and my lips were swollen, but the zipper on my bellbottoms was still untouched. Before I left, he caught my arm, his rough palm grating against my own soft skin. "I love you, Lili," he said.

"I love you too, Ares," I said.

And then I left the barn, my fingers pressed to my lips.

* * *

I love you: what a silly thing to say. I know he didn't mean it. Gods don't fall in love with mortals, at least not in my limited experience. If they did, they wouldn't leave them so goddamn often. We'd only known each other a short time. Ares might have been temporarily bewitched by my breasts or my quick temper, but he wasn't in love with me.

Just like I wasn't in love with him. I was broken inside, and I needed someone to fix me.

Ares wasn't the best person for the job, but he was the best I had. I made do.

* * *

I snuck away often after that, going to the barn to meet Ares. The days before Nicoline's funeral were spent gathering stolen kisses like low-hanging apples in an orchard. If my family noticed my swollen lips and the vacant look lingering in my eyes, they didn't comment. They probably didn't even see what was right in front of their eyes. They were too busy fighting their own demons.

My mother, still tucked in bed, was losing her battle.

* * *

The morning of the funeral dawned. The sky outside was a brilliant blue, the color of the lake a few miles down the road on a good day, like a scrap of cloth Betsy Ross must have used to weave the original flag of the good old U.S. of A. I tossed aside my covers, pulled on a black dress. I pinned my brown locks back, pressed my fingers against my lips. I slid a pair of black shoes on to my splinter-flecked feet. My skin was browned from the summer sun; a bit reddened from overexposure. But my heart and soul felt black, and I supposed that was what mattered.

We piled into the station wagon, enveloped in the smell of stale leather and cigarettes. I fixated my gaze on the wooden crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror. _Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen._

For the first time in days, my mother had gotten out of bed. She looked like a mess; stray tendrils of hair were coming loose. They shone not with health but with lank grease, like the lard in the ceramic jar we kept on the windowsill. She didn't look composed, she looked destroyed, her dress wrinkled, the circles beneath her eyes like the violets in her prized flower garden. Not damaged, like I suspected Lovett was, but utterly and completely destroyed, irretrievable.

We were all silent. I sat sandwiched in-between Lovett and Fitz, squeezed between their bulks. Our nicotine-stained fingertips were itching for a cigarette, but we pressed them into the folds of our black clothing, silent and grave. Lovett ran his hand over his buzz cut and Fitz tugged his earlobe. I pressed my fingers against my lips. We all had different ways of coping.

We rode to the funeral in a deafening cacophony of quiet.

* * *

I wish I had more to say about the funeral, but I don't. It was a simple affair. We flocked to a plain white chapel, sat in plain wooden pews. I said goodbye to my beautiful sister, her stringy hair parted perfectly, her lips curved into a secret smile, words meant only for herself hovering on her cold, still lips. I remembered the last thing I'd ever said to her: _What are you on this time, Nic?_ Even in her final hours, I'd been angry. Anger was the easier emotion to deal with. Disappointment, fear, those were trickier, more tangled. Anger was simple and straightforward, a haze of red to carry you over the rest of the more dangerous emotions.

I said a eulogy. I would repeat it for you, but you've already read it. It was the story of the time Nicoline and I got lost in the woods together, when she was six and I was ten.

"Instead," I finished, tears sluicing down my cheeks, cold as Nicoline's skin, "I thought of that night years ago, when Nicoline held me tight, protecting me against the monsters that lay feet away in the darkness. _Don't worry,_ she'd said. _I'll protect you_. I thought of how she'd wrapped her arms around me, my first line of defense, how she'd saved me from the creatures in the dark, and I wondered why I hadn't been able to do the same for her."

I sat down in a church pew, weeping quietly. I was badly in need of comfort, but the only comfort I got was Lovett's arm, slung around my shoulders. Everyone else was drowning in their own need for comfort. My mother didn't even look at me. She just looked down at her lap. When she got up with the rest of everyone else to join the funeral procession, her skirt was sopping wet with tears.

I watched the soil pour on her coffin on the ground in the quiet stillness of the cemetery, heard the dirt _thunk_ hollowly against the wood. She had been born in the lands of Ohioan soil, Nicoline, the only sister I would ever have, born and raised an Ohioan farm girl with dirt jammed under her fingernails for the first eighteen years of her life. She had been born in the dirt and would be laid in the dirt to rest, a perfect circle of life.

 _Nicoline Zoé Bellerose,_ her tombstone reads to this day. _1952-1972. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend._

I wonder what people think now as they pass her tombstone, if they think anything at all. I wonder what they think of this tombstone marking the grave of a girl who died far too young, a victim of drugs and despair. I wonder if they think her death was a gruesome accident, wonder if they know it was suicide, accidental suicide, because whatever else stands, whatever intentions she might have had, Nicoline did this to herself, and that is the worst part of all.

I wish everything could be different. Maybe if she hadn't done this to herself, maybe I'd be less shocked, less angry at her, less anguished. But the circumstances remained the same, stubbornly unmoved by my own pitiful pleas.

I couldn't change them, no matter how I wished I could.

* * *

When I got home, I didn't go to see Ares. Instead, I locked myself in my room and cried.

* * *

 **A/N: A short chapter, I know. I promise that MUCH longer chapters are coming. Please review!**


	7. Chapter 3, Pt II

**A/N: I'm back! (I'd type more, but I'm lazy and tired.)**

 **Note #1: Customary thanks go to Rosestream, who manages to beta-read even while jet-lagged! Three cheers!**

 **Note #2: Thanks again to reviewers! Seriously, guys. You MAJORLY make my day.**

 **Disclaimer: Nope, don't own.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Note #3, underlined so you'll actually read it and not just skim because even though I get it this is important: This chapter is a bit disturbing. It's the close to Part III, and things get better from here. However, I figured I'd just give you a warning going into it. On Friday, I'll start publishing Part III: August. Ciao!**

 **Recommended soundtrack: Dear Prudence by The Beatles**

 **Summary: Not even bothering.**

* * *

Three

A funny American phrase says things come in threes, good and bad. That happened to me the summer of 1972, the summer I was sixteen, the summer my world tilted off its axis. All three were bad. None were good.

Nicoline's death was the first.

The day after her funeral, the day after I spent most of the day curled underneath the covers, watching the light land in dappled rays across the wooden floorboards of my girlhood room, Lovett went back to Vietnam. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and my mother a kiss on her forehead, leaning down to accommodate her position in bed. My mother, it seemed, had rejoined her place among the down pillows, wrapped in soft blankets and silence. He went back to the jungle and resumed his career of killing, more and more men piling up in a metaphorical heap on his conscience as he slowly lost himself, drowned in an endless sea of blood.

As you might have supposed, Lovett's departure was second.

After that, I stayed locked in my room. I didn't go see Ares, my legs felt too weak, my heart fluttering too weakly in my chest, for me to even make it down the long, winding stairs. For better or for worse, I had all but become my mother, the mother I had thought was tough as nails. Nicoline's death had destroyed us all, and I wasn't sure I would ever find myself again.

I needed to be alone. What I really needed was to be at peace, but peace was unreachable from my position, sprawled across my mattress in my stuffy room that had begun to stink of sweat and grime and tears. I was beginning to wonder if I would feel peace ever again.

Two days after Lovett, left, I was jerked from my restless sleep to the sounds of my brothers' anguished screams.

During the night, my mother had tip-toed downstairs, her feet padding quietly on the wooden floorboards. She had opened the medicine cabinet, greedy, desperate fingers clawing for anything, anything at all, and closed around a bright orange bottle the color of overripe clementines and Christmas Day oranges.

Fitz and Martel found her sprawled on the floor. Their animal cries were what drew me out of my bed, shoved me down the stairs. God, I wish now more than anything that I'd stayed in bed. I wish more than anything I had been spared the sight of my too-pale mother sprawled on the kitchen floor tiles, a thin line of blood snaking down her temple, limbs twisted unnaturally, eyes still open wide, unblinking, staring at the rusty old fan, her hand outstretched in a final prayer. Who she was praying to, I don't know. God, maybe, or Nicoline.

I don't believe in a God, not anymore.

Would you, if you had seen such a thing? If it had been you, staring at your mother dead on the kitchen floor?

My father came downstairs then, too. He didn't even looked surprised. He just ambled over to the liquor cabinet, brought out a bottle of bourbon, and went upstairs. My mother had committed suicide, and all he could do was nurse a drink.

In case you hadn't guessed yet, that was the third.

* * *

After I found my mother lying dead on the kitchen floor, fingers still wrapped around the empty bottle of pills, I went out to the barn, to be surrounded by the smell of soap, cigarettes, manure, and hay. I didn't need smoke, I didn't need a nicotine rush. I didn't need to get drunk. I needed to be distracted, brought away, but I refused to go down the same rabbit hole into which my mother and Nicoline had tumbled.

"Hey," he said softly, cautiously, as if he already knew the horrible truth about my mother, that I alone hadn't been enough for her to stay.

I stalked across the floor, frenzied, my heart slamming against my ribcage. No more were the quiet protests and flutters, this was anguished, angry, furious and violent, an earthquake tucked inside my chest. I went on my tip-toes and hooked my arms around his neck, dragging his face down to meet mine. I kissed him hard, crushing our lips together. I kissed him and kissed him until the whole world melted away, until my knees went too weak to stand, until my cheeks were slick with moist tears that dripped and slipped down my chin.

He never once stopped me, never once pushed me away to comfort me, to ask what was wrong, to care or protect me, to stop me from making the biggest mistake of my life. He just continued to kiss me, hands traveling up my back, up my shirt. Hungry for more, and selfish. Ares summed up in five words.

When his hands tugged on the waistband of my jeans, a silent request for more, I didn't stop him. I'd only ever had sex once, with Freddie O'Ryan in the back of his dinged-up Chevy, amid the scent of sour alcohol and his clumsy, fumbling hands. I was tipsy and dressed in my bright pink prom dress, and Freddie had an old condom stuffed into his wallet.

But this wasn't like that. This wasn't like that at all. This was desperate and raw and hurried and messy, a wild cry for help, but it was still sex. It still brought me away from life for a while, lost in the visceral grip of Ares's arms, and I didn't have to swallow pills or snort cocaine to do it. This was still reversible. This was not permanent. I could still erase this.

I lay back on the hay in a secluded corner of the barn, straw digging into the tender skin of my back, scrape against my shoulder blades, and let Ares have me, over and over again, until I was left on the wooden slats alone, staring up at the ceiling. No tears left. I was empty.

 _I can still erase this._

* * *

I couldn't erase it, of course. But I was stupid and I was young and I was utterly and completely destroyed, so damaged that I couldn't breathe. I needed something, someone, anything, anyone. Ares was there, Ares was willing, and so I gave myself to him.

Not that there was much left to give.

Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if Nicoline hadn't died, if my mother hadn't committed suicide. Would I still have slept with Ares? Would I still have had to face the consequences? Would my life be very different than it is now, as I sit here madly clacking away at my beat-up Smith-Corona?

So many questions, and not a single answer.

* * *

So soon after leaving for Vietnam, my brother came back home again, from the tropical jungles to the temperate forests of Ohio. My mother's funeral was slated for July 15. She would be buried next to my sister. The tombstone reads, to this day: _Amorette Zoé Bellerose. 1927-1972. Beloved wife, mother, and friend._

I wonder what people think when they see the two gravestones side-by-side, my mother reunited with her daughter. But then again, I was probably right the first time; they probably don't think anything at all.

Within a month, I attended two funerals for lost family members, sat in the plain church pews twice, wore the same drab black dress, white-faced and pale, solemn, unable to breathe. I don't remember much of anything about my mother's funeral. By then, I was long gone, lost to the world, lost just like everyone else. My father still hadn't said a word since my mother's death, and I worried sometimes that he would take the same way out.

I don't remember much about July. What I do remember is time spent in the barn with Ares, using sex as an escape. I refused to turn to drugs, refused to become my sister or my mother, and so he became my drug, just as intoxicating.

July dragged on. The days passed in a haze of sorrow and Ares, Ares and sorrow, sorrow and Ares. The barn was my safe haven, my family a foe, an enemy. Even poor Enfin was neglected and ignored in the wake of my hollow heart. I missed Lovett and Nicoline and my mother, but most of all, I missed myself. I no longer knew if there even was such a thing called home, not anymore. Between everything had happened, the days before Nicoline and my mother died, it seemed those days were the happiest I could ever imagine.

I wish I had more to say, aside from these petty regrets I voice, but this is it. That was July. I attended my sister's funeral, I attended my mother's funeral, and I gave myself to Ares, all under the backdrop of a searing sun and a flock of cicadas burrowed in the trees.

Of course, I would have to deal with the consequences of my actions. And those consequences were hefty indeed... heftier than anything I could've ever imagined.

But I wouldn't discover that until August, when it was too late.

Too little.

Too late.

 **END OF PART II**

* * *

 **A/N:** **Please** **review! (Yes, that is desperation. Indulge me.)**


	8. Part III, August: Chapter 1

**A/N: Chapter One of Part III (tada)! Updates may be coming a bit more slowly now that exam season (at least for those of us in the U.S., I'm not sure about other countries) is upon us. They'll still be coming, don't worry, just not with the same regularity. Once summer comes, updates will resume their normal schedule, but until then, I've got exams, and since I go to a Creative and Performing Arts School, boards (basically a compilation of everything I've done over the year, so, yeah, I'll be taking a long walk off a short pier). Just thought I'd give you guys a heads-up!**

 **Note #1: Again, thanks go to Rosestream, who, even in the midst of studying, finds time for me. Seriously, three giant cheers! HUZZAH, HUZZAH, HUZZAH!**

 **Note #2: Reviewers, you guys are seriously the best. I mean it. You all wear reviewer halos, I swear.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own, yadda yadda. Whatever.**

 **Rating: T (strong language in this chapter, just a forewarning)**

 **Summary: Not bothering.**

* * *

 **Part III**

 **August**

* * *

One

Ironically enough, it was my grandmother who brought me back to myself.

My grandmother had always been a shadowy figure, lingering in my peripheral vision but never out in the open. When I was younger, before my grandfather died, she smiled often and gardened even oftener, kneeling in the soil alongside my mother, coaxing reluctant blossoms up from the loamy mulch. But after my grandfather died, she became a different person. She retreated into herself, took up sky-gazing as a permanent occupation, sitting in her wicker chair on the porch and watching the clouds figure-skate across the horizon.

When my sister died, she cried for a day, and then resumed her position on the porch. When my mother died, she never left the porch at all, not even to sleep, to crawl into her bed at night. She was there in the morning and there in the evening, underneath a sky of cornflowers and forget-me-nots, rocking back and forth. Almost invisible. I don't know if she had even realized her daughter-in-law was dead.

One evening in August, I was clomping up the stairs after meeting Ares in the barn. My lips were rough and swollen, my hair mussed beyond recognition, my eyes vacant, my blouse unbuttoned. I was a walking ghost. I might as well have been my mother or my sister, might as well have been dead, because though I was still here, still had a life, I wasn't living it.

"Libre."

I stopped in my tracks, the wooden boards creaking under my weight. My grandmother had spoken, though her eyes were still trained on the sky. Enfin was crouched by her feet, and his head was lifted hopefully. In the past few weeks, I'd neglected my dog, once my closest companion. I felt a twinge of guilt.

"Gran?" I asked, my voice scratchy.

"Come here, Libre," my grandmother said, sounding tired. "Come here and sit."

I did as she said, dragging my feet along the ground. I was barefoot – I'd never even put on my work boots this morning. My feet were covered in a fine layer of filmy dust. A cut on my toe was bleeding, and my heel throbbed painfully from a splinter. It was funny, the things you noticed when you found the time to stop and look. I sat down heavily in a chair next to my grandmother, wrapping my arms around my shoulders.

"What is it, Gran?" I said, rubbing my temples.

She didn't say anything for a long time, so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer after all, so long that I thought she had forgotten her words, that she had nothing to say after all. When she spoke, it wasn't what I was expecting, not at all. "Have you ever read the Greek myths?"

I blinked. "What?"

"The Greek myths," my grandmother repeated, shifting her position. "Narcissus, Perseus, Hercules, Andromeda, Jason. The stories of old."

"Gran," I said uneasily, "I don't really want to debate theology right now."

"You will sit here and you will listen," my grandmother commanded imperiously, and my mouth snapped shut. She fixed me with a glare, and then settled back in her seat. "I have lived a very long time – through both of the world wars, the first and the second. I have lived through epidemics, revolutions, and the fall of kings." She paused. "I have met countless souls, seen countless more die."

"Gran-" I began.

"Hush!" She glowered. _We women in the Bellerose family are all spitfires_ , I thought. _Until grief breaks us forever, anyway_. "In August of 1939," she continued, her voice resuming a peaceful tone, "your grandfather took us out of Normandy. We escaped to Britain just as the Nazis invaded Poland. If we had stayed in France, we would have fallen under German rule. Perhaps we would have become resistance operatives, like your mother, but most likely…" Her lips knotted. "Most likely, we would have died."

I stared at her, feeling exhausted, but I knew better now than to interrupt.

"While we were in Britain," my grandmother said, "I stumbled across a haunted-looking man in a taproom. His name was James Wexler. You have probably never heard of him; most people have not. This man was alone in the back of the pub, a few tables over from where I was sitting, having a drink with your grandfather." Her eyes were distant as if she was lost in the maze of her memory. "About fifteen minutes after I sat down at my table, a man in an overcoat sat down at Mr. Wexler's table. What followed was a conversation mumbled in muffled undertones. I caught a word of it here, a word of it there." She exhaled.

"I have a very good memory. I remember every word I overheard of that conversation. 'We are in grave danger,' Mr. Wexler told the man in the overcoat. 'The children of the Big Three have started a war. Hades, Poseidon, Zeus. There is no clear winner.'"

"Gran," I said, furrowing my eyebrows.

She shot me a look. "I believed them. Do you know why, Libre?"

I didn't say anything. I just looked at her warily.

"Your name means _Liberty_ in French," she said. "Your dog's name means _At Last_. When I was twelve years old, my mother took me to Paris. You have never been, but it is a beautiful city. Art everywhere, engraved into the very stones, and always the smell of the Seine. A filthy river." She wrinkled her nose. "When I was walking on the street, I saw a man. Or so it appeared to me. He was very tall and very broad, with long, shaggy hair." Her lips folded. "He had only one eye, set in the fleshy skin of his forehead. No one seemed to notice but me."

Now I was alarmed. "Oh, my God," I said.

"You think I am crazy," my grandmother said. "The women in our family are born with the Sight. The Greek myths are real. This I know. On that short trip to Paris, I saw monsters. I even saw a god once, a long-limbed fellow with blond hair and a cheeky smile." She pursed her lips. "The Sight sometimes skips a generation. It is such with my children. But you have it. This I know. You have not seen any monsters because we are far away from all the Greek demons. They cluster in cities, or near the children of gods. There are no such children nearby, and so you have never seen such proof. Not until now."

"Gran," I said, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"The Sight allows us to see through the Mist, a magical barrier that prevents mere mortals from seeing the like of gods and demons," she said. "I know you have it."

"Gran, what the hell are you talking about?" I cried. "Have you lost it completely?"

She just looked at me. "He is no human, Libre."

I felt as if I'd been slapped. "Who… what?"

"The boy." She gave a heavy sigh. "He is not a human. He is a god. And if you are not careful, you will be saddled with a godly-born. And then nothing – not even he – will be able to keep you safe."

"What boy?" I asked, playing dumb.

My grandmother pursed her lips. "I have lost much, you know. I have lost my country, my siblings, my parents. Most of what I have lost is due to the Second World War when the Nazis took everything from me." She paused. "I lost your grandfather to a heart attack. We survived an onslaught of fascists with guns and blood on their hands, with death in their chests, their souls black as tar, and his own heart killed him. When he died, I died, too. I thought, _Why me? Why me, when I have already lost so much?_ _Why must I be forced to bear another loss?"_ She gazed at me. "This is probably how you feel about your mother, about your sister.

"I lost myself. I sat out here, day after day, because I thought I had nothing left to live for. I thought there was nothing to life but sorrow and loss." She looked down at her hands. "It takes much for an old woman such as myself to admit she was wrong, but I was wrong. There is always something to live for. You just have to look hard enough.

"If you continue to see this boy," my grandmother continued, "you will lose yourself. You are already losing yourself. But before you know what you are doing, you will find that you have made an irreversible mistake." She let out a breath. "Perhaps you already have. Perhaps it is too late."

"Gran," I said, putting my face in my hands. "What does this have to do with anything?"

She just shook her head at me, looking sad. "I see I have not convinced you. I am not surprised." A wry smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Do not let your grief turn you mad. There is always something to live for, Libre. Your name means _liberty,_ your dog's name _at last_. _Liberate yourself at last."_ She scrunched her lips up then, folding her hands in her lap. "Before you see Ares again, ask him to take off his sunglasses."

I froze. "H – how do you know his name?"

"You screamed it once," she replied. "While you were making love in the barn. I watched him leave." My grandmother looked directly at me, eyes unwavering. "Ask him to take his sunglasses off. Come find me when he does." The white of her knuckles showed through her skin, fragile like a wilted magnolia petal. "You will need a shoulder to cry on." She shook her head. "You may go."

And so I did, rising and plodding into the house, my fingertips pressed to my lips. "Wait," I said, feeling frazzled and confused.

"Yes?" my grandmother asked.

"If you think you're so smart, if you think you know so goddamn much about grief," I said, anger bubbling in my veins, "why do you still sit out here all the time?"

She didn't say anything, and for a moment, I thought she wasn't going to answer, resuming her reign of silence. But just as I was getting ready to leave, she spoke. "I am waiting for my husband to come home. I used to wait for him here when he was out working in the fields, here in this very seat." She sighed. "He used to sweep me off my toes and kiss me on the lips. His arms were strong, and he smelled of cedar. He did this all our life, back in Normandy, too. He was not like normal men. He greeted me with passion, with life. With _joie de vivre._ " My grandmother looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. "I have already lost myself. I see him coming up the drive sometimes, you know. Just as he used to look as a young man, green-eyed with that courtier smile. You have his eyes, and his smile too." She smiled sadly, a teardrop snaking down her cheek. "I see Nicoline now, too. And your mother. I see everybody that has left. My girlhood friend Madeleine. My mother, my father." My grandmother turned back to the horizon. "I sit here and wait to join them because I am only half in this world of the living.

A shiver crept down my spine. "I… I have to go."

My grandmother didn't call after me as I raced inside, running all the way up the stairs, pausing, panting, at the threshold of my door. My heart was hammering in my chest. My grandmother had been driven crazy by grief. Was it possible the same could happen to me?

Was it possible the same had already happened to me?

 _Before you give yourself to Ares again, ask him to take off his sunglasses._

I was confused, utterly bewildered and heartbroken. My grandmother was insane, but her words had still left a nagging suspicion within me. _Before you give yourself to Ares again, ask him to take off his sunglasses._ Never once, in all our time spent together, had Ares removed his customary Ray-Bans. Never. Not once. Not even during sex.

That nagging suspicion never left.

* * *

The next day, I stayed in my room. I wrapped myself in a quilt and sat down in the chair by the window, watching the sky turn from cornflower blue to azure. I reached for a cigarette, lit it, and lifted it to my lips. Gray clouds rolled in from the horizon, thunder rumbling in the distance. _A summer storm,_ I thought wryly, and the memory of that summer storm in June all those weeks ago came back to me. Had it only been two months ago? It seemed like a lifetime. Nicoline had still been alive. My mother had still been alive.

And that was when I put out my cigarette, yanked a hoodie over my boxer shorts, shucked on a pair of flip-flops, and padded down the stairs, running out into the storm. Outside. Into the barrage of bathwater rain.

I ran into the barn, rain pounding on the roof. Ares was already there, sitting in the corner smoking. His lips curled into a smile when he saw me. Even though it was raining – even though the clouds were soot-gray – he was still wearing sunglasses, dark frames. I had never once – not once – seen his eyes.

"Take off your sunglasses," I said. I was shaking, but I wasn't sure if it was fearful trembling or soaking or shivering.

"You're all wet," Ares said, stubbing his cigarette out beneath his boot. "What happened?"

"Take off your sunglasses," I repeated.

Ares was staring at me. "What?" It was as if he'd just heard me for the first time.

"Take off your sunglasses, Ares," I said quietly. "Take. Them. Off."

He just looked at me. I couldn't read his expression – it was hidden behind a pair of dark lenses. He scrutinized me from head-to-toe, from my dripping hair to my muddy toes. "Fuck," he swore, standing up, dragging a hand through his hair. He still didn't take off his sunglasses. "Who told you?"

"Who told me what?" I asked, bewildered.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, threatening growl. _Just the summer storm_ , I reminded myself. _Stop being so paranoid, Lili._ "Who told you the truth?" Ares asked, his face red. "Was it Hera? For fuck's sake, if she doesn't stop involving herself in my personal business I might just have to send her straight down to Tartarus-"

"To Tartarus?" I echoed emptily. "Hera?"

"Or was it Athena? I swear, if she gets her prissy little nose involved one more goddamn time, I'm going to drag Arachne out of hell just to terrorize her-"

"Stop!" I screamed.

Ares froze.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, wiping my cheek hastily before the ever-familiar deluge of tears spilled down my cheeks. I never used to cry, but lately, it seemed as if that was all I ever did. "My grandmother told me to ask you. She said some things – something about the Big Three, and World War II, I don't know – but she just told me to ask you. I figured I would." I shook my head. "What the _fuck,_ Ares?"

Ares looked as if he were going to hit something. "Your grandmother?" he asked, sounding strangled.

"My grandmother," I repeated, standing up straighter.

And that was when it happened. There was no real preamble. One moment, I was a broken shell of a person. The next, I wasn't. There was no smooth transition, no gradual rise. It was Ares's betrayal that gave me the strength I needed to find myself again. It gave me something to fight for, some anger, some other feeling than overwhelming _sorrow._ My fury was a life raft in a choppy sea, a beacon of light in a world of gray. Anger was my redeemer, my savior. Even if I hadn't admitted yet in my head that Ares was something inhuman, I knew it in my heart. Your heart knows things a long time before your head does.

I took his betrayal and strengthened my heart with it. I built a hard stone wall in my chest, stood up straight. I pushed the sorrow away, shoved it deep, deep down where I would never find it again. I used my red-hot haze of anger to do it. I was done being sad. I'd had enough of it. For the first time in weeks, I was ready to be okay again. I _wanted_ to be okay again.

I took the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and tossed them to the ground.

* * *

I never smoked again.

* * *

And then I stood up straight, crossed my arms, looked Ares dead in the eye. "Take off your fucking sunglasses," I said, my voice strong, though raggedy from chain-smoking. "Look me dead in the eye. And then tell me who – or what – you are, and what the hell you think you've been doing."

Ares swallowed. "Libre, I can just leave," he said. He looked almost – afraid. Afraid of me, little old me, five-two Libre Bellerose with the heart made stronger by its brokenness. "I – there's no need –"

"Sit down, you unconscionable son of a motherfucking bitch," I said lowly; evenly. "And tell me everything."

Ares sat down on the bay of hale, looking miserable. "I meant to tell you, it's just-"

"Your sunglasses. Take them off." I was running the show now. I was in power. No one was going to stop me.

Ares was still reluctant. "Libre-"

 _"Take them off!"_ I snarled.

He lifted his hand to his face and slowly, agonizingly, took off his sunglasses, and for the first time, I saw his eyes.

Or perhaps _eyes_ was not quite a right word for them. They were gaping black pits, filled with flickering flames, orange and azure and scarlet. He stared at me for a long time, unsettling gaps trained on my figure. They were not made of color, but of every shade missing from the rainbow, described only by words missing from the dictionary; not a deluge of light and life, but a _lack_ of it. His eyes made me feel physically ill, bile rising in my throat. I felt woozy, but I dug my heels into the barn floor. He wasn't human, then. Never had been. His eyes were fire. The proof was right in front of me, undeniable.

"What are you?" I whispered.

"A god," Ares said, sliding his sunglasses back on. "One of the old Greek gods. The myths – the myths from Grecian times – they're true, Libre. The gods and the monsters. And the demigods." He wrinkled his nose at the afterthought. "I meant to tell you, I really did. But before I got a chance, you-"

"You used me," I realized.

"What?" Ares's expression was unreadable.

"You used me. That's what the Greek gods did back in those days, wasn't it?" I laughed. "They used mortals for sex. You're no kid from New York on his way to California. You're an ancient god, and you were having an awfully fun time, playing around with me like I was some dog's chew toy."

Ares looked pained. "Libre-"

"Get out," I said quietly. "Get off my property. Now."

"Please-"

"Get off my fucking property," I shouted, furious, "before I get my father's shotgun and shoot you in the chest. I don't care if you're a god or not. I _will_ shoot you, and it _will_ goddamn hurt."

He let out a heavy sigh, rising to his feet. He turned around as if to leave, but at the last moment, he stopped. He reached into the pocket of his jeans. "Take this," he said, holding out a gold coin. It was ancient, melted at the corners, the sort of thing you might see in a museum, encased in a cage of glass smudged by elementary schoolchildren's fingerprints. "It's a drachma, ancient Greek currency. If there's some sort of mist or rain around, something that could make a rainbow, and throw the drachma into the fog. Speak my name, and say it loud. _Ares._ That's the only way you'll be able to contact me."

"Why the hell would I want to do that?" I looked at him in disgust.

"Because someday," he said quietly, "you might need it. You might need _me_. You have the Sight. Not all mortals do – only very few do. I really was only passing through. But then you saw me, and I decided to stay. You're safe now because you're in the middle of Ohio, in the middle of nowhere. But monsters can still attack you. Someday, you might find yourself needing my help. And when that day comes-"

"If, you mean," I said, shaking my head and crossing my arms.

" _When_ ," Ares corrected. "When that day comes, you're going to need help, or you will die. It's a fact, plain and simple."

"Get out," I told him, pointing toward the door.

"Not until you take the coin," he said. "I'll leave as soon as you do."

I snatched up the coin, about to tell him to leave or else I really would get the shotgun, but he had already turned on his heel, striding from the farm. Leaving forever, gone. So many people had left me that summer – my mother, Lovett, Nicoline – but out of all of them, Ares was the only one I was glad to see go.

I tossed the gold coin into the corner of the barn. I didn't need it. I was going to be just fine, I told myself, and for the first time that summer, I believed it. My heart had hardened, my shoulders were squared. I was ready for the world.

I left the bit of gold glimmering dully in a spiderwebbed nest of hay, all but forgotten.

I was going to need it, of course. The coin. But I suppose you guessed that already.

The next morning, I woke up to a feeling of nausea in my stomach. I ran to the bathroom, hand over my mouth, and spent an hour heaving into a porcelain bowl, head spinning.

It could have been food poisoning. It could have been a stomach bug. It could have been acid reflux. But it wasn't. I suppose you guessed that already, too.

You've probably guessed a lot of things about me already.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Please review!**


	9. Chapter 2, Pt III

**A/N: I'm back after a long hiatus, though I'm here to stay. Life has gotten hectic, and will be until about until the beginning of June. (The life of a student. What are you going to do?) Thanks to all who were patient enough to return!**

 **Note #1: Thanks again to the amazing Rosestream!**

 **Note #2: Thanks to all reviewers! You're saints!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own, yadda yadda. I do, however, own a copy of _Anna Karenina._ Which I have actually read, and let me tell you: even though it might seem like a good idea at the time, throwing yourself onto the train tracks and letting yourself be crushed by an oncoming train is NEVER the answer. Never. **

**Summary: Not bothering.**

* * *

Two

It took me three days of throwing up to glance down at my stomach, to let my eyes stray to my abdomen and allow in the horrible possibility. And once I did, I felt like vomiting all over again. _There's no way_ , I thought. There was no way life had been that cruel, not when I had already gone through so much. Not when I had already been beaten senseless. Not when I had just gotten back on my feet.

Here's the thing about life: there is no such thing as fair.

I waited for a week and a half to be sure. I missed my period. I continued to vomit, felt nauseous at the odor of cooking food, felt my emotions spiral out of control, felt the waistband of my jeans grow marginally tighter. It was enough; all signs pointed toward the obvious. There is no such thing as fair. There isn't now, and there wasn't then. I was pregnant, and Ares was the father, the same man I had just banished, told to never return.

And there was really only one person I go to for help.

I found my grandmother in her customary rocking chair on the porch, her eyes trained on the landscape. A hawk circled low in the sky, a fat orange sun perched low on the horizon. It was an August evening, the cicadas finally quieting as the sun sank, slowly but surely, like a boat capsizing, drifting crookedly down to the sand beneath the waves.

"Sit," my grandmother said, without even turning her head. "Sit, Libre."

I did as she instructed, curling up by her shoes. She stopped rocking, dragged her gaze away from the ever-captivating sky long enough to look at me. My grandmother heaved a sigh. "You have not been with him in quite some time," she said. It was a statement, not a question. An acknowledgment of the obvious.

"No," I said quietly. "I haven't."

"You know, then," she said, "what I told you is true?"

I exhaled, leaning back against the porch railing. "I don't know half of what you said," I admitted. "But I know enough to know that the world is not the place I thought it was. There are gods. Monsters, too, if Ares was correct, and…" My hand crept up absentmindedly to my stomach. "Demigods."

"The children of gods," my grandmother said, returning her gaze to the sky. "Half-human, half-god. Some are blessed with godly powers. They are not immortal – they must be made immortal, and then only if they are true heroes – but they are very dangerous. They attract monsters like bees to a hive. Or so I have heard." She glanced at me as if she were waiting for me to say it. To tell the truth.

Here's another thing about life: only lies are beautiful. It is in falsehoods and sugar-spun deceit that beauty lies. The truth is gruesome, impossibly ugly.

It was like a car accident, in a sedan speeding down the highway at ninety miles an hour, road passing beneath the rubber tires, landscape whizzing by, hot sun glancing off the windshield. Just waiting for the inevitable.

I swallowed. "I'm pregnant."

My grandmother didn't look surprised, but she seemed to deflate. For the first time in memory, my grandmother looked afraid. Not sad, not sorrowful, not ancient, not a dried-out old husk, a shell of a woman, but a fragile thing, flimsy as rose petals, easily crushed. " _Mére de Dieu_ ," she murmured. _Mother of God._ "There will be no saving you now." She looked at me, shaking her head. "The godly-born are not like us, Libre."

I swallowed. "You said they attract monsters. What do you mean?"

She exhaled. "My grandmother, too, had the Sight," she said. "My grandmother grew up in Toulouse. She used to see the monsters, hideous things. They crept out of the Underworld, escaped from Tartarus."

"Tartarus," I said. The word sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

"The hell of the Underworld," my grandmother said grimly. "There are five realms of the Underworld, six if you count the palace of Hades: The Isle of the Blessed, Elysium, Asphodel, The Fields of Punishment, and Tartarus. The last is the worst one of all. That is where the monsters –the evil beings, the demons – go."

"And they can escape?" My heart hammered in my chest.

"They can," my grandmother looked at me, lips twisted. "They come after demigods."

My fingers itched for a cigarette, but I shoved the craving aside. "Oh, God," I whispered. "What kind of monsters?"

My grandmother just shook her head. "Unspeakable beings. They will kill you and your child."

"What am I going to do?" I felt my chest tightening, anxiety mounting. "I don't – all I've got is a shotgun! How am I-"

"Do not be stupid, Libre. Your shotgun will not work against them," she said. "There is a special kind of metal that you must use – some sort of bronze. Or perhaps it was gold. I could never remember." She shook her head. "You cannot kill them. You will not be able to defend yourself."

I felt as if someone had dumped cold water on my head. "Then what am I going to do?"

"You must go," my grandmother told me.

"Go? Go where?" I got to my feet, gesturing wildly. "I hate to break it to you, but there's nowhere to fucking go! If the gods have moved on to America, chances are the monsters followed them!"

"New York City," she said, glaring at me at the interruption. "That is where you will go. You will live with your aunt. She will take you in. There is safety in numbers. The smells will confuse the monsters, make it harder to track you and your child. It is as safe as you will ever be."

"My aunt," I said, head spinning. "New York City."

"You have made your bed, Libre Bellerose," my grandmother said. "Now find the courage to lie in it. This is what you must do, and so it is what you will do." She hesitated. "Unless, of course, you can find that boy. The godly one."

"Ares?" I scoffed. "Like he's going to help me."

"You don't have many options." My grandmother leveled her gaze at me. "Do you have any way of talking to this boy? Of asking for help?"

I thought of the drachma lying abandoned in the corner of the barn. "No," I lied. "He just left."

"Are you sure? There's nothing you aren't thinking of?"

I looked my grandmother dead in the eye.

I'd gotten so, so very good at lying.

"I'm positive."

She stared at me for a moment and then looked away. "I see." Her lips twisted. "You will have to tell your father, and your brothers."

My cheeks drained of color. "Tell them? That I'm…"

"Not that you are carrying a demigod," my grandmother said. "There is no use in explaining a horrible truth no one will ever believe." She let out a slow, laborious breath. "But you must tell them that you are carrying a child."

"Oh, God," I said, raising a hand to my mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"You had better get used to it," she muttered as I raced back into the house.

###

Martel was out in the fields. He was sitting in the maze of corn, the sun-bleached stalks shimmering in the late-afternoon sunlight. I'd seen very little of my brothers lately, very little of my father. Perhaps that was more my fault than theirs. They'd seen very little of me.

"Hey," he said quietly as I sat down beside him, pulling my scabby knees up to my chin. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." I hesitated. "There's something I have to tell you."

He smiled wryly. "I figured as much. It's not like you come find me just to make small talk about the weather nowadays." He looked over at me, and I realized how exhausted he looked, how drained. Martel was pale, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes. He rubbed his nose. "Just tell me it's something good."

"Um," I said hesitantly. "Not exactly."

"Fuck," Martel said, and I jerked back, a little surprised. Martel never cursed. Fitz did, I did, even Lovett did on occasion. But Martel never cussed; he was the one with the heart of gold, pious and perfect, the golden boy. I had changed; I knew that much. I was not the same person I was two months ago. It had never occurred to me that my brothers might be undergoing transformations of their own, that they might be morphing and transforming into someone new. After all, I was not the only one who had lost a sister and a mother.

I exhaled. "I met a guy."

"A guy," Martel repeated. "You know, I can't say that really surprises me. Or that it's particularly bad news." He glanced sideways at me. "That's not the news, is it?"

"No," I said. "It's not."

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "What happened, then? Did you and the guy split up?" I nodded mutely. Martel slumped, looking a little relieved. "Is that it? Are you undergoing a rough breakup? You two just had a nasty split?"

"No," I said. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it back down. "I broke up with him, but that's not it."

He took a deep breath. "Alright, spit it out."

The car was tumbling down the highway headfirst, faster and faster, zipping by, closer and closer…

"I'm pregnant."

Silence. Dead silence. Nothing but the rustling of the cornstalks, the chirping of the crickets, the sound of the earth's blood pumping through its veins thousands of miles below the soil, the sound of my own blood rushing in my veins, the sound of my heartbeat. _Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump._

"Say that again?" Martel's face was carefully devoid of any expression.

"I'm pregnant," I repeated, trying to empty my voice of any emotion.

"Shit." He looked like he wanted to hit something. "Fucking _shit."_

"I know."

Martel mirrored abject horror. "What are you going to do? Is the guy still around? Is he going to do anything?"

"I'm going to write to Aunt Lise," I said. "Move to New York City. Probably get a job as a waitress, save up some cash. There's always work in New York if you look hard enough – more than there is in central Ohio, anyway, especially considering I won't be graduating high school, much less going to college."

Martel nodded, closing his eyes. "And the father?"

I thought of Ares then, though of the way his lip had curled when he'd mentioned demigods. "No," I said. "He won't be helping."

"Maman always thought you'd go far in life," Martel said.

I felt as if I'd just been doused with a bucket of ice water. "What?"

"She bet on you," he said. "Fitz was too much of a grumpy deadbeat to amount to anything, and she was too worried about my running around and taking guys through the ass to put aside any future for me. But you…" He paused. "It's not that you're particularly smart."

"Gee, thanks," I said sarcastically.

"You're not," Martel said bluntly. "There's just something about you. Some sort of drive. You're brave, I guess. Braver than I'll ever be."

Silence again.

"You should get out of here, too," I said.

"Get out of where?"

"Here," I said, gesturing. "Ohio. Go somewhere. Seattle, maybe San Francisco. People aren't so… confined there."

"Nicoline went to San Francisco," Martel answered. "Look how well that worked out."

"Nicoline was a pushover."

Martel made a strangled noise. " _Lili!"_

"It's the truth," I said. "I'm not going to lie just because she's gone. Nicoline was a pushover, had been ever since she was little. There was never any saving her. She went to San Francisco with a bunch of druggies. Just because you want to live life – just because you want to be free – doesn't mean you'll always pay a big price for that freedom. That's not how life works."

"Oh, like you escaped unintended consequences?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"It just is."

Martel glared at me. "Where do you get off, Lili? Telling me how to live? Calling her a pushover? You're no better. You're sitting here, sixteen years old and pregnant, for God's sake."

"It's different because I never loved him," I answered, hardening the stone wall around my heart. "I needed a drug. My sister died because she was too weak to say no. My mother committed suicide." I swallowed. _Angry,_ I coached myself. _Angry._ "I needed a drug, and he was there. He was there and he was willing to take me and use me and make me forget for a few hours. I was nothing to him. I never loved him, and he never loved me. It wasn't freedom. It was a way to forget." I ground my fist into the soil. "But there's something I've learned lately, Martel, and that there's no forgetting. What is done is done. You can either move on or stay in the past, wallowing in grief. You can waste away. It's not as if we don't have the right. In the span of a few weeks, our mother and our sister died.

"But here's the thing: I'm not ready to let life go just yet. I'm going to have a kid. It's happening. I was stupid and I gave myself to him to use over and over and over, and now I'm going to pay the price. My life might be in shambles, but…" I put my hand on my stomach. "This kid? This kid's life hasn't even started. And I owe it to them to give them the best life possible. I had a chance to freedom. It's been here all along. You just have to look hard enough to find it. I had my chance, and I blew it. I'll probably never get another one again." I looked at him. "Don't make the same mistake, Martel. It's too late for my own personal freedom, but my life, shambled though it might be, is not over. This child, for better or for worse, is giving me something to live for. If you want to spend the rest of your days out here in the cornfield, fine. But there's always something to go on for. You just have to look for it."

Martel was quiet. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," I said. "Don't waste your life, Martel. Not like I've wasted mine."

###

The next morning, the sun dawned bright and early. I had written a letter the night before, and now I grabbed the envelope off my desk, put on a hoodie, and ran down the lane barefoot, my grandmother already on the porch. _Dear Aunt Lise,_ the letter read. _I write this letter with trembling fingers, in desperation. I need your help._

I stuffed the envelope in the mailbox and hoped, prayed, for the best, fingers wrapped around a wooden rosary tucked underneath my pillow.

When I came back into the kitchen, my father couldn't meet my gaze, Fitz was furious, and Martel was the perfect depiction of guilt. It was like a still-life from a painting, one of those moments when everything was hedged on that one millisecond, and you couldn't help but wonder what the past, present, and future would be.

"You told them," I said to Martel. Stating the fact, plain and dull.

"I figured I was doing you a favor," he said apologetically. I just glared at him. There was no use explaining to your brother that there were some things you just had to tell people yourself, not when Fitz looked as angry as he did then. I nearly tripped over my own feet in my haste to get away, to escape from my brother's hot gaze.

He said only one thing, but it cut deep as a knife wound to the sternum. He stormed out, shoved past me, and muttered, "Whore."

The wall around my heart tightened.

My father looked helpless. "I – I have to-" he mumbled to himself, picking his hat up off the table, straightening it on his head, and walking dazedly out of the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Martel said. "I didn't know…"

"Don't, Martel," I said. I put up my hand. "Just… don't." I didn't try to follow my brother or father. What was the point? In a few weeks, with any luck – and despite its short supply, I figured I was way overdue – I'd be gone, anyway, starting a brand-new life.

I climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, pushing the door open as I went into my room. A shadow in the corner of my eye stopped me before I flopped down on my bed. It was my reflection in the mirror hanging on my wall, the dirt-spotted, grimy one that I hadn't bothered to clean in weeks.

I reached up, wiping away the dust coating the reflective surface with the sleeve of my hoodie. A stranger stared back.

She was a thin girl, maybe in her mid-twenties save for a youthful gleam yet lingering in the barest recesses of her expression. Crow's feet crinkled the folds of skin around her eyes, and her lips were pinched, tied in a sailor's knot. She was gaunt, a girl of shadows and dust, her green eyes hollow and bloodshot. Her nose was crooked, her collarbone jutting out sharply as a penknife from an envelope. Her long hair hung lank and greasy. She was a haunted girl, this specter trapped in my mirror.

That girl was me. I hadn't even recognized it.

"How could you have missed it?" I whispered. I wasn't talking to myself. I wasn't talking to Martel, or Fitz, or my father. I was talking to Ares, lower lip wobbling. "How could you have missed how far gone I was?" My stomach twisted. "Did you even _care?"_

I turned around, my gut clenched. And that was when I saw them, the scissors on my desk. A pair of plastic blue scissors, blunt, more suited to a second-grade classroom. I picked them up, my hand trembling. I looked at my hair in the mirror again, long and free and loose. Grabbing a fistful of my brown locks, I snipped half of the hair off. Instead of falling to my back, it fell to my shoulders.

 _Snip, snip_. Bits and pieces of my hair fell to the floor.

###

That night, when the moon was dangling precariously from the sky, the stars obscured by a filmy layer of clouds, I slipped down the stairs, eased my way through the kitchen, and trudged through the mucky hay to reach the barn.

It was the first time I had been to the barn since I had left Ares. It was quiet and still, smaller than I remembered. I strode past the stalls of brown-eyed cows, over the splintery floorboards. Wilma had flopped over on a hay bale in the corner. Starlight filtered through the slats of the barn, barely illuminating the darkness. I closed my eyes, swaying on my feet, and for half a second, it was weeks upon weeks ago, after the day when Ares had taken me to the Root Beer Stand, when I thought he might kiss me, but didn't. Restrained himself, kept himself back.

I opened my eyes and frowned.

The coin glimmered dully in the corner, covered with bits and pieces of dirt, right where I had left it. I knelt down and picked up the coin, turning it over in my hand. A drachma, Ares had said. An ancient Greek form of currency. I turned it over in my palm, the metal cool against my flushed skin. I wasn't going to contact him, not yet. I could manage without him.

Still, I pocketed the coin and left the barn. In a few weeks, I would be in New York City, far away from the farmhouse, miles from Fitz, Martel, my father, and my grandmother. I would be in the Big Apple with a bulging belly, flipping flapjacks or waiting tables – if I was lucky.

I wrapped my fingers around the coin. Ares was right, much as it pained me to admit it.

One day, I might need him.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoy! Please review!**


	10. Chapter 3, Pt III

**A/N: I'm back. Hopefully, we'll be getting into a more regular schedule. (Fingers crossed.)**

 **Note #1: Thanks go to Rosestream yet again for her prompt and fab beta reading. You're the best!**

 **Note #2: Thanks again go to all reviewers. You're a bright spot in a not-so-sunny world.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

Three

Two weeks after I sent the letter to Aunt Lise, in the last dregs of August, a reply was waiting for me in the mailbox. I opened it with trembling fingers, but I needn't have worried. I was welcome to stay in New York with them for as long as I needed. I could get a job, save a little money, and buy an apartment of my own, provided I contribute to the family expenses. I could raise my child on minimum wage, learn to just scrape by. This was as good a future as I could have hoped for. Once, I might've wanted more, but if there was one thing that summer had taught me, it was that perceptions were ever-changing, never stable. You had to take what you could get.

They also sent a plane ticket. In a week, I would leave for New York City.

I packed a bag, stuffed my clothes and books into a canvas duffel. I didn't have many belongings, nothing of vital importance. I was leaving behind the farm, and while some part of me was sorrowful and wistful, most of me were glad I would not be returning to life as usual in the autumn like I thought I would last June. My mother and sister were dead; I was pregnant. Life changed in the blink of an eye. The true mark of character was learning to change, adapting to new circumstances, new revelations.

My hair hung in choppy tendrils now, a bird's nest of a disaster. In a way, I relished it. Gone was the old Libre. Some part of me had felt filthy and violated after Ares, and cutting my hair, silly as it might have been, still loosened me, freed me from my binding shackles. I was a different girl now.

I started going by Libre again. _Liberate yourself at last_ , my grandmother had said. Gone was Lili; she no longer existed. In her place was Libre, the aspiring cocktail waitress that got knocked up at sixteen. That was who I was now, like it or not. I was adapting.

Late in August, I got a letter from Lovett. _Dearest Lili_ , it read. _How is life back home?_

I didn't know how to tell him. Telling Martel had been one thing. He was the outcast of the family, a homosexual imprisoned in the clutches of rural Ohio in 1972. My father was still refusing to look at me, and when Fitz addressed me, he either called me 'Whore' or 'Slut'. Unless Martel was around, there was no one to reprimand Fitz, and because the wall around my heart was not yet strong enough to do it myself, it slid by. I couldn't bear to tell Lovett the truth: that my life had completely fallen apart, so much so that it might never be put back together again, like Humpty Dumpty. I couldn't bear for my favorite brother to treat me like muck on the bottom of his shoe.

But then the letter got worse, and I realized dodging my way out of an ugly truth and wrapping myself in a beautiful lie might just not be possible.

 _I've been given leave to come back home – just for a month or two, but leave all the same. In light of the recent tragedies, I've asked to stay at the farm and work a little, just to help Papa. I'm afraid the harvest season will be especially taxing for him this year, and I'd like to help, or at least make arrangements for something or someone that can. I should arrive before the end of August. I can't wait to see you. You'll be a sight for sore eyes._

 _Your brother,_

 _Lovett_

I pressed my hand to my mouth and willed myself not to cry. Sooner or later, my secret would be out, and Lovett would know the truth: his sister was a pregnant whore.

###

Lovett arrived on August 28, just two days before I was set to leave for New York. I still hadn't told him that I wouldn't be sticking him around, but after he knew the honest truth, I doubted he would have any objections to my displacement.

I waited for Lovett on the front porch, in a loose-fitting cotton dress that sat still and stagnant around my ankles in the stifling August heat. He was a wavering form coming up the drive, his bag slung over his shoulder. He approached, dragging his feet through the dirt. It was funny, I thought. We had always worried about Lovett dying the most. It was ironic, really. The summer of deaths, and thus far, Lovett's wasn't among them.

"Hey," Lovett said, offering me a smile. His grin, however, quickly changed to alarm. "What – what happened to your hair?"

"I cut it off," I said.

"You cut it off? What, with a pair of plastic scissors?" I shrugged, and Lovett shook his head. "That's… interesting."

"How was Vietnam?" I asked, changing the subject artlessly.

Lovett's lips thinned. "Bloody," he answered shortly, and it was clear that he didn't want to talk about it.

I nodded, looking down at my dirt-encrusted fingernails. "I have to talk to you."

"Isn't that what we're doing right now?"

"No, I mean…" I trailed off, fumbling for the right words. "We need to talk. In-depth. I need to tell you something that sort of… happened while you were gone." I kept my gaze pinned on my feet. I had thrown on my work boots underneath my dress. They were crusted with mud, the dark sludge lightened by the sun.

"Why? What happened while I was gone?" He glanced up at the house. "Did something happen to Fitz or Martel? Or Papa?"

"No," I said quietly. "Something happened to me."

"I already saw your hair, Lili."

"Libre."

"What?" Lovett stared at me, eyebrows furrowed.

"Libre," I repeated softly. "I go by Libre now."

Lovett's duffel bag dropped to the ground with a _thump_. He groaned, rolled his shoulder, and plopped down on the porch beside me. He looked exhausted, wan and tired, strung out like a piece of bubblegum attached to the sole of a shoe stretched to the breaking point.

I found myself acutely aware of our surroundings; the quiet farm I would be leaving so soon. My grandmother, for once, was still inside, and Fitz, Martel, and my father were out in the fields. It was just the two of us, brother and sister, alone on the porch. My stomach swirled.

"Alright," Lovett said, rolling his eyes. "What do you have to tell me, Libre?"

"I met a guy over the summer."

Lovett blinked. "…Okay. I don't-"

"We broke up a little while back. At the beginning of August." I looked down at my feet. "Our relationship was…" I swallowed, fortifying the walls around my heart. "Our relationship was mainly about sex. I didn't love him, he didn't love me. I needed somebody, after _Maman_ and Nicoline, and he was there."

Lovett looked angry now, and a bit green around the gills. "You mean some guy used you to his advantage?"

"Yes."

"And you ended things?"

"Yes."

Lovett was silent for a minute. "And that's what you had to tell me?"

"No." I closed my eyes. "I had to tell you…" I trailed off. My hands were shaking. This was worse, so much worse, than telling Martel had been. The car accident was magnified a thousand times. "I had to tell you that…" I closed my eyes. "I'm pregnant, Lovett."

He didn't say anything for a long time. I cracked open one eye to gauge his reaction, but his face was blank. He didn't say or do anything. We just sat there in silence, watching the horizon. Maybe my grandmother had the whole life thing figured out. Maybe permanent cloud-watching was the way to go, the way to live. The ideal occupation.

Lovett finally gave a gusty sigh and put his arm around my shoulders. "Oh, Lili," he said, lightly kissing the top of my head. "What are we going to do with you?"

We sat out there for a long time, watching the sky and talking. Lovett told me a little about Vietnam, and in exchange, I told him a little of my future. I told him a bit about Ares, leaving out the part about his strange eyes, and his whole Greek-god spiel. Instead, I told him about Ares's motorcycle, about the day that we'd gone to the Root Beer Stand. I told him about my plan to go to New York City, about the plane ticket Aunt Lise had sent me. He nodded, swiping a hand across his face.

"What?" I asked. "You don't… You think I should do something else?"

"No," he said. "I think Grandmother was right. I think you should go to New York." He looked down at his shoe. It was flecked with farm dust, a few stray strands of grass clinging to the rubber sole.

"So then why the face?" I was only half-joking. Now that my mother was gone and my father was a waif, Lovett's was the testimony that mattered most to me.

"Nothing."

"Lovett," I warned.

"It's nothing, Libre. Really." He had slipped so easily into calling me by my new name as if he realized how changing a name could separate you from your past self, form an endless ocean of regret and mistakes.

"Lovett, I can tell when you're lying. Just spit it out." I crossed my arms. The heat of the blistering day had dissipated, and the faint evening chill was seeping into my skin.

He let out a breath. "I'm just… sad. That's all."

"Sad?"

"I'd wanted more for you," he said frankly, looking at me. "We all did. I never thought you would stay here, not in Ohio. If I'd gotten the chance, I would've stayed on the farm, probably worked on the thing for my whole life. Inherited it from _Maman_ and Papa, most likely. Martel and Fitz might've stayed on. But we always thought you were going to be the one to leave, even before Nicoline fled from the cornfields."

"Me?" I echoed. "But I never even – I never even thought of leaving."

"Yeah," he said, "but you also never even thought of staying."

We sat in a thick quiet. "I guess you're right," I admitted finally, pulling a clump of grass and turning it over deftly in my fingertips. "I am leaving, though."

"Sure," Lovett said. "But not the way I'd wanted you to."

We were silent after that. There was nothing left to say. Sometimes people have a simple way of telling the ugly truth, spelling out the honest, frank reality and letting it hover in the air, settling around your toes and sinking into your skin with the cool night air. What's the point of speaking after that?

###

The day before I left for New York, Fitz knocked on my bedroom door.

"Come in," I muttered, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with a frown tugging on my lips.

I didn't know who I expected. Lovett, or maybe Martel. Perhaps even my father. But Fitz had been treating me as if I were some infectious disease. He had stopped cursing at me, most likely because the first time he called me 'slut' in Lovett's presence, he socked Fitz in the jaw, grabbed him by his shirt, and slammed him back into the wall hard enough to make the picture frames rattle. I didn't think it was because he actually felt guilty.

"Oh, my God," I said, almost dropping the shirt I was pressing into my suitcase. _"Fitz?"_

There he was, dark-haired and dark-eyed, purple-blue bruises blooming along his jaw. "Can I…" He gestured toward the room.

"Yeah," I said, still eying him warily. "I did just say 'come in', didn't I?"

"Yeah," he said, scratching the back of his neck. He looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

"Fuck," I said. "Are you going to kill me? Are you hiding a knife in the waistband of your jeans, or something? A shotgun behind your back?"

"Am I hiding a-" Fitz got a funny look on his face. "Wouldn't I just end up stabbing myself in the gut if I hid a knife in the waistband of my jeans?"

"I don't know," I said, still cautious. "Maybe you'd cut off your dick instead. Depending on which way the sharp end was facing."

Fitz shook his head. "No, I'm not…" He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "I just came to ask you – if – you know –"

"Oh, for Chrissakes, Fitz," I said, irritated now. "Whatever new insult you've come up with, just go ahead and sling it my way. Might as well."

"It's not a new slur. It's…" He swallowed. "Did you love him?"

"Did I – what?" I was taken aback, to say the least.

"Did you love him? The guy that, you know…" He gestured at me, his cheeks scarlet.

My lips folded together. "His name was Ares. And no, I didn't love him."

"Then why did you sleep with him?" The words came out brazen, blunt. That was Fitz for you. That was my brother.

I dropped the shirt, sinking onto my mattress. "You really want to know?"

"For God's sake, Libre, why the hell would I ask you if I didn't?"

"Fair enough." I paused. "He was my drug. Nicoline had acid, and pot, and cocaine, and God only knows what else. _Maman_ had pills. Papa has his work in the fields, Lovett…" I trailed off. "Actually, I don't know how Lovett copes. But whatever it is, Ares was my drug. He was my way of escaping. I wasn't… all the way there for most of July when we were together. I don't think any of us were."

"I wasn't," Fitz said quietly.

"Case in point." I exhaled. "It might sound stupid – it is stupid – but I just wanted a way to forget. Just for a little while. My life wasn't worth living, you know? But I didn't want to throw it away entirely, either. Just in case. One day, it might be worth living after all."

Fitz nodded. He turned around as if to leave, but I stopped him. "Fitz, wait. Why did you come in and talk to me? After weeks of hurling crude names at me, why are you asking me this now?"

He halted but didn't turn. "Lovett," he answered. "He told me to ask you why. I couldn't understand why you would – how you would be so stupid. Lovett told me to ask you, and then see if I could understand."

"And do you now?"

"Do I what?"

"Understand."

A pause, so long and drawn out it seemed to stretch on forever, like molasses dripping from a jar, sticky and chestnut brown. "Yes," Fitz said softly, and left, the door swinging shut behind him. Just like Lovett's simple truth, there was nothing to say after Fitz's admission. Just silence to be chewed on and honesty to be embraced like a toddler hugging a teddy bear.

###

The night before I left for New York, I had a nightmare.

In it, I had gone into labor. Horrible, awful labor; piercing and terrible, like being kicked in the gut, but times ten. I was on a hospital bed, chewing down hard on the ice, the chips slippery on my tongue, blood snaking out of the side of my mouth when my teeth had chomped down on my fleshy lip instead.

But when the baby came out and I went to hold it, the child had no eyes. They were only gaping black pits, filled with flickering flames.

Lovett shook me awake. I had been screaming in my sleep.

###

My goodbyes were swift and quick. I kissed Martel on the cheek, whispered "I forgive you" into his ear, hugged Lovett tearfully, and smiled tentatively at Fitz, who, to my utmost relief, returned my shaky half-smile. My father just nodded at me. He didn't say a word. I wondered if he, too, like my grandmother on the porch, had lost his mind from grief. It was difficult sometimes to remember that I had not just lost a mother and a sister that July; my father had lost a wife and a daughter. No parent should ever have to bury their child.

I didn't know then that I would never return to that farm. If I had known, I might have grabbed a handful of the soil and put it in a Ziploc bag, a piece of home to carry with me always. But I didn't. I only know now how the whole thing was going to play out, and my death is still awaiting me, in my peripheral vision but not quite in my grasp just yet.

Back then, my stomach hadn't even swelled to its full size.

I was New York-bound.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	11. Part IV, A-W: Chapter 1: September

**A/N: I'm back! (Also, I'm dying, because school. And deaths of book characters. But, you know, first-world problems.)**

 **Note #1: Thanks as always goes to the incredible Rosestream for her fab beta skills. Thanks so much!**

 **Note #2: Other thanks go to reviewers, who are my new internet besties. I would hug you if I didn't have personal space issues (and, you know, also the fact that we're communicating via cyberspace. But, whatever. Minor details.)**

 **Note #3: This chapter has the introduction of a major character... Hope you all like him!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own, yadda yadda.**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

 **Part IV**

 **Autumn-Winter**

One

September

Aunt Lise, her husband, and three children lived in a cramped apartment in the Bronx, next door to a chain-smoking Puerto Rican family whom you could hear shouting through the cracker-thin walls at all hours. I was given the couch to sleep on, a ragtag, maroon contraption with rusted springs. I had only a threadbare quilt and a lumpy pillow. For the first few nights in New York, I couldn't even sleep. Even putting aside the cacophony of Spanish one tenement over and the incredibly uncomfortable sleeping arrangement, the sounds of the city kept me up. I had been used to the whisper of cicadas and the song of frogs and crickets, not the roar of cars and the hubbub of a thousand voices and dialects mingling together.

I got a job at a diner down the street. Mondays through Fridays, from eight o'clock am to five o'clock pm, I waited tables, on my feet all day, my soles aching when I finally stumbled home. Aunt Lise told me I was free to do whatever I wanted on the weekends, but I never did. Sometimes I just waltzed through the streets of New York, wandering through Central Park and sitting in the grass, where I could feel a bit of home in my fingers once more in the form of waxy green leaves and clumps of Queen Anne's Lace, but I never spent any money.

When I was ten years old, I read a book called _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. It was the story of a young girl named Francie Nolan growing up in the early nineteenth century with her impoverished family in the slums of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. When Francie was born, her mother nailed a tin can down on the floor and shoved any extra change into the cup. That way it collected grimy dimes and nickels and pennies. Whenever things got desperate, whenever shit hit the fan, they would pry up the little tin can and empty it out.

So that was what I did. I didn't nail it down on the floor, of course – obviously, Aunt Lise would have had my head – but I did go to the drugstore and buy a small metal box with a combination lock similar to the ones dangling from locker doors in schools. I hid it under the couch, as Aunt Lise's husband would've tried to break in and steal my money if he got the chance. Her fella from Toulouse had turned out to be kind of a bum, in the end. At least she wasn't saddled with eight kids, like the Puerto Ricans next door.

Aunt Lise required that I put in a little money from my paycheck to pay for food and rent in the apartment. I did so, and any that was left over that I didn't need to buy necessities like clothes – though Lise loaned me most of her tent-shaped maternity clothing, thank God – and hygiene products, I put in the lockbox, stowing it away for a rainy day. My maternity leave would be as brief as possible, but I was going to need money until I got back on my feet. Yes, Aunt Lise was generous, but she wasn't _that_ generous.

Every once in a while, I got letters from the farm, mostly from Lovett. _Dear Libre_ , they read. _How are things with you?_

The truth was, I missed home. I felt out-of-place in New York City. I was a farm girl at heart, more accustomed to the flat, empty plains of the Midwest, not the seedy back alleyways of the Bronx. But I had a steady job, and my belly was ever-growing. I had no choice. Here, I had a future, dismaying as it might be. Back home, there was nothing for me. I would squat on my father's farm forever, and I didn't want that for myself. I still wanted a life of my own.

Things would have to get bad – really, horribly bad – for me to go back home.

And then there was Ares's coin. I'd brought it with me. It stayed in my lockbox, underneath the crisp dollar bills and rusty old pennies. For some reason, I felt reluctant to throw it away. I might need it someday. Some days, I looked into the mirror and placed a hand over my stomach, grimacing, and thought of the coin burning a hole through the metal. And then I thought of Ares, what he might say if he knew.

After those foolish thoughts, I splashed cold water on my face and told myself to stop being such an idiot. I knew what Ares would do.

He would leave. Again. Without so much as a goodbye. He'd made that very clear.

I'd taken as much heartbreak as I could that summer.

# # #

One day in early September, when the heat was still humid and thick, seeping through sewer grates and making the air reek of waste, I met a boy at the café.

I was shoving through the tables, a tray above my head. It was early enough that my belly hadn't yet begun to show, but Aunt Lise had told me it was only a matter of time. "Just wait," she'd said. "You will. And you'll rue the day you ever met That Boy." 'That Boy' was how my aunt referred to Ares. She'd asked me once what his name was, the boy I'd tumbled in the hay with. I'd told her that it didn't matter. "I suppose that's true," she'd replied.

I'd stumbled over something – an old man's loafer poking out from the vinyl booths – and my tray had gone crashing to the floor along with a lone empty coffee mug. I'd felt my cheeks heat up as I kneeled on the ground, scrambling to pick up the shards of pottery.

"It's alright. Don't worry about it."

I glanced up. It was a boy, curly-haired with pale gray eyes and a cheeky grin. He was wearing a grease-spotted apron and carrying a filthy broom and a dustpan. "We've all been there at some point or another," he said. "My first few weeks on the job, I must've broken four cups."

"They didn't fire you?" I blurted out unthinkingly. My cheeks heated.

He chuckled good-naturedly. "No, they didn't. God only knows why." His eyes met mine. "Name's Will."

I gave him a wry smile. "My name's Libre."

"Libre, huh? What's that, Portuguese?"

I giggled. "Not even close. It's French."

"Well, I never claimed to be an international scholar." He flashed me a cheeky grin. "You know, you should get a cup of coffee with me sometime."

"I should, should I?" I said.

"You really should. I'm a very nice guy, you know. You'd like me if you got to know me."

"Who says I don't already?"

"Now who's playing the flirt?"

I stared at him for a moment, a smile tugging at my lips, before I sighed, straightening and picking up my tray. He stood up next to me, still grinning like a loon. "I can't," I told him, regret tinging my voice.

"You can't," he repeated. "Can I ask why not?"

"You can," I said. "But you're not going to like the answer."

Will shrugged. "Never know. An answer is better than nothing. Maybe you're repulsed by how I smell." He sniffed his armpits. "Although I can't say I smell anything particularly putrid."

I laughed. "It's not how you smell."

"Then what is it?"

I paused. "I'm a screwed-up person, okay? You don't want to get involved with me. Or my shit storm of a life. Trust me."

"Oh, come on. Give me some credit here." Will smiled. "I'm not the sort of guy to run at the first sign of trouble. I can handle a little baggage."

"Not my kind of baggage," I said quietly. "Nobody can handle that."

"Hey," a customer said to the right of me, sounding ornery. "Excuse me, but I've been waiting for my meal for fifteen minutes. Could you please do a little less flirting and a little more serving? You know, your job?"

"Sorry," I said apologetically, walking away. "Duty calls."

Maybe in another life, I would have gotten a cup of coffee with him. In some sort of life where Nicoline was still alive and my mother hadn't killed herself and I hadn't wasted away July afternoons entangled in Ares's embrace. In some sort of life where I wasn't pregnant at sixteen, wasn't staring out emptily at a long, lonely road ahead of me.

 _Sorry._

Maybe in another life. But not in this one.

# # #

One day in mid-September, I was walking through Central Park, the grass tickling my ankles, purse swinging at my side. It was a beautiful day – the sky in New York was almost blue, obscured as it was by a veneer of smog. I was in the middle of Central Park, walking alongside the lake, so far into the grass and the trees that I could almost forget I was in the city.

Almost.

As I was walking, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned, eyebrows creased. A young girl was skipping through the park. She was beautiful, blue-eyed and blonde-haired. She had big blonde curls framing her face. Her lips were twisted in a grin, and the sunlight glinted off her shiny shoes.

A man appeared by the girl. Or perhaps he hadn't appeared; maybe he'd always been there, lingering in the shadows. He appeared to be a businessman, with shoulder-length black hair pulled into a ponytail and electric blue eyes. His suit was pressed, his black loafers shiny. I might have been imagining it, but I thought I saw sparks dancing around his feet as he walked, strolling up near the girl.

I wanted to intervene, wanted to pull the man away, but for some reason, my feet stayed rooted to the ground.

"Hello," the man said to the little girl, almost pleasantly. "What's your name?"

The girl blinked up owlishly. "Mama told me not to talk to strangers." _Good girl,_ I thought.

"Ah, I won't bite," the man said. "My name is Zeus. See? Now you know my name. We're not strangers anymore."

The girl looked wary, but then she shrugged. "My name is Beryl," she told him. "Beryl Grace." She stuck out her hand, and Zeus shook it.

Zeus smiled. "How old are you, Beryl?"

"Seven," she said. "How old are you?"

"Very old," he said, straightening. "It's been nice meeting you, Beryl. I might have to pay you a visit again – when you're older, that is."

"Can we be friends?" Beryl said, looking intrigued by the prospect.

Zeus looked down at her affectionately. "I'd like that very much."

And then, right before my eyes, he disappeared. Poof. Vanished into thin air, with a rumble of thunder to announce his departure. Beryl looked puzzled, but then a sort of filmy Mist descended over her, washing her in dewy raindrops, and she resumed a complacent expression, the kind usually associated with those on heavy medication.

Gran had been right. I had the Sight. Zeus – one of the Greek gods, if I remembered correctly. There were supernatural forces at work here in the city, and I had just stumbled across one of them. And where there were gods, there were monsters, if Gran was right about that, too. I'd have to learn to watch my back.

# # #

One day after work, when I was tying back my sweat-soaked hair and getting ready to leave, Will stopped me on my way out.

"Hey, Libre!"

I knotted my lips together and turned. Will was jogging out onto the sidewalk where I was standing, looking like a disaster, his hair a mess of cowlicks and flyaway strands, his cheeks turned bright red with exertion. His clothes were grease-spotted, his shoes covered in dust and grime. Despite it all, though, I felt my heart skip a beat. Will would always be cute, I supposed. He was just one of those guys.

"What, Will?" I said. I sounded exhausted, even to my own ears.

"I was wondering if you'd had any time to reconsider that offer I'd made. You know, about the coffee, and getting to know me, real swell guy that I am."

I sighed. "I'm just not interested. I'm sorry, Will. Really."

He looked dissuaded. "Yeah. That's what I figured. So, my second offer would be to have coffee – as friends."

"As friends," I repeated.

"Yeah. As friends. You know, two platonic individuals sitting across a table, drinking some coffee and having a terrific time. No romantic entanglements. No nothing."

I studied him. "This still sounds like a date proposal to me."

"Well, it's not." He shook his head. "Really. I'm completely and totally romantically uninterested in anything to do with you. I don't think you look cute. In fact, I think you look like – like –" His eyes searched the scene. "Like that piece of gum over there on the sidewalk. You know, all trampled and sticky and gross-"

"That doesn't even make sense," I pointed out.

"Right, but would I be saying you looked sticky and gross if I wanted to get into your pants?" Will said.

"I don't know," I said. "Probably not. But you don't strike me as a typical guy."

"I don't?" Will asked, looking pleased.

"See?" I cried. "Right there, that's what I'm talking about. I can't get involved, Will. I'm really sorry. Trust me, I'd like to."

"Then why don't you?" he said. "I don't care about whatever's going on with your life, Libre. I really don't. I mean, we've been working together for a couple of weeks now, right? Almost a month. And I still think you're a pretty groovy girl, whatever you say."

It was true. It was approaching the end of September, and the leaves on the trees dotting Central Park were beginning to change, slowly but surely. A chill had started to weave its way into the heat. It was now officially autumn; the equinox had passed with little fanfare. I had known Will for a long time. And if it hadn't been for the emotional sandbags tied to my ankles, I would've said yes.

"I'm a screw-up, Will," I said. "I'm a fucking train wreck. I'd be a shitty friend and an even shittier girlfriend. I'm not groovy, not even close. Though it's sweet of you to say so."

"I'll tell you what," he said, and I groaned. "No, just hear me out. Let me take you to get some coffee, and then you can tell me whatever it is that's so bad about you, whatever it is that would apparently make me abhor you. If it's really as bad as you think, I'd go running for the hills, wouldn't I?

"But," he continued, "if I don't, that means you have to give me a shot. Alright?"

I studied him. It was an enticing offer. And yet… "I still don't want to enter a romantic relationship – not just with you, with anyone. The last one I had left me a little scarred, and I need some time."

"Fine," he said. Man, he was doggedly persistent. "Then we can be friends. I really do think you're a cool person, and I'd like to get to know you. Just platonically," he said, as I shot him a look. "I swear." He made the signal of a cross over his heart, almost as if he was genuflecting.

I sighed. "Fine. But you're paying."

Will let out a whoop. "Meet me after work tomorrow?"

"Sure," I said. "But you should know I don't drink coffee."

"You don't drink coffee?" Will looked scandalized. "Why the hell not?"

"You'll know by the end of the conversation we have tomorrow," I said. "Around the same time you'll be running for the hills."

# # #

I ordered herbal tea, Will ordered coffee. It was a nice diner, I had to give Will that, nicer than the one we worked in. We both got a plate of hash browns to split. I was beginning to crave fried foods more than anything in the world, and lately, my cravings had been irrepressible.

And then I opened my mouth and told him. Everything.

I told him about my family, about meeting Ares in the cornfield. I told him about Nicoline and her strange addictions, and how she'd died unexpectedly, chasing a high in her last moments on earth. I told him about my mother, her days spent in bed, and her tragic end. I told him about Lovett, how the brother I'd always loved more than anyone had come home from Vietnam just to say goodbye. I told him about my quiet father and my gay brother, about the other brother that hated me and the grandmother who couldn't tear her eyes away from the sky.

I told him about Ares, about our days in the barn – though I skimmed over some of the gory details – and the day I kicked him off the property. I told him how I'd gotten pregnant, how my grandmother had sent me off to New York to get a job, because there were no jobs left in the middle of Ohio, in some dinky small town.

The only thing I didn't tell him was about the myths, the Sight and the Greek gods and goddesses, the monsters that plagued my dreams. I'd seen a few monsters in New York, one-eyed men like my grandmother had described and more, stuff from nightmares and Hitchcock films. Zeus had been the only god I recognized, though who knew? Maybe there were more.

After I finished, Will was silent for a long time. He just took a sip of his coffee. He didn't start running for the hills, but he didn't look particularly thrilled, either. "I see what you mean," he said finally. "About the baggage, that is."

"Yeah," I said, looking down at the table. "I figured."

"Hey," Will said, putting his hand over mine. My head snapped up, surprised. "It's alright. I'm not running, am I? I'm still here." He gave me a shaky grin. "And I'm not going anywhere."

My eyes welled. "Really?"

"Really," he said. "That Ares guy sounds like a bastard, and I'd like to give him a swift kick in the nuts, but otherwise…" He hesitated. "I think you need a friend, okay? And I don't know about the other poor schmucks out there, but I'm not about to leave you high and dry."

I began to cry in earnest. "Thank you," I blubbered.

Will stood up, walking around the table quickly and wrapping his arms around me. "Hey," he whispered. "It's okay. It's going to be all right."

We stayed there for a long time, gripping each other like a lifeline. A hug between friends.

Or so I thought at the time.

# # #

There isn't much to be grateful for in this story. Honestly, my tale kind of sucks. It's got heartbreak and devastation and drama and tragedy. There aren't many good things to it.

But Will?

Thank God for Will. I don't know if I would've made it without him. He was at my side for all of those horrible, long months. He was my stalwart supporter. Without him, I probably would've given up, taken my mother's path out. Going, going gone. Vanishing, poof. No longer here to trek the earth.

Thank God for Will.

Thank God.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	12. Chapter 2: October

**A/N: I'm back!**

 **Note #1: Thanks as always go to Rosestream!**

 **Note #2: More thanks go to wonderful reviewers!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own. Anything. Ever.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Summary:**

* * *

Two

October

Aunt Lise's children were named Frank, John, and Mary. "Life is hard enough without suffering a foreigner's name," she'd told me. My parents had graced us with French names, but Aunt Lise was an American girl, through-and-through, born under a flag of red, white, and blue, just of a different pattern, a different assembly. Looking at her now, I found it difficult to imagine she had ever been French. Maybe that was the thing: maybe you can grow up your whole life thinking you're one thing, living one life, and visit somewhere else to realize you don't know yourself at all.

There were things I was learning in New York City that I'd never known before, sheltered by the small-town girl cowering inside of me. For one, America might've prided itself on being the great old melting pot, but it sure as hell didn't act that way. Every which way I looked, it seemed people were getting crushed beneath the heel of a work boot like a smoldering cigarette. Everybody hated the Poles, everybody hated the Jews, everybody hated the Puerto Ricans, everybody hated the Irish, everybody hated the Germans; everybody hated everybody. Unless you had generations of American blood, with skin creamy as two-percent milk and guileless eyes, you were despised by somebody walking the streets.

It had never seemed to matter back home. There were really only two sorts back in my small town: black and white. If you were black, you got the short end of the stick. If you were white, you got the long end. That's all there was to it. It wasn't like New York City, where there were a thousand different kinds of white, a thousand different kinds of black, different degrees of ethnicity that set you apart just a fraction of an inch. But as it turned out, that fraction made all the difference.

And then there were the Russians. I'd never paid much attention to the news before, but apparently there was more than one war going on. There was the war in Vietnam, and then there was the Cold War, which didn't involve battlefields or guns, waged not between armies, but between the KGB and the FBI, communists and capitalist democracies, monikers I still couldn't quite piece together. "Somebody gonna nuke somebody one of these days," my uncle told me. "We all got nukes, but all it takes is one to bring a nation to their knees." Then he staggered off to the kitchen to find himself another beer.

There was a whole world out there, much vaster than I'd ever imagined. There was Africa and Asia, Europe and Australia, South America dangling from the tail of Mexico. There were cities far beyond New York and Atlanta, far beyond the towns spattering the grasslands of the Midwest. Aunt Lise had an atlas on her bookshelf, tucked away in enormous, scratched bookshelves. One day, I'd cracked open the spine and dared to take a look.

It wasn't that we didn't read out on the farm; we did. We had bookshelves, too, but they weren't like Aunt Lise's shelves. Hers were filled with what seemed to be thousands of paperbacks, books written hundreds of years ago and books written months ago, books bought at the half-price bookstore and books bought brand-new, smelling of fresh ink and creamy paper. There was science fiction novels and fantasy books, _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy and _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Brontë. Our bookshelves at home were stuffed with Harlequin romances and farmer's almanacs, sugar-sweet books to be devoured on a lazy afternoon and reference books to till the soil and coax flowers up from the dirt. But Aunt Lise's were different. They held the key to another world, one completely different than the one I'd been traipsing through my whole life. I wanted to live there.

The day that I pulled the atlas down from the shelf, I spent hours sprawled on the couch, leafing through the pages. I found out where the Soviet Union was, the real vastness of it, the neighboring communist countries that burrowed into its shadow like a toddler clinging to a mother's ankle. I traced my finger over Europe, over France and Spain and Portugal and Italy and the other tiny countries, the ones smaller than a dime, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, Holland and Denmark. My eyes went south, to Africa, to St. Johannesburg and Cape Town. Through the pastel-painted countries printed neatly on the map, I went around the world and back again, from Shanghai to Sydney, Cairo to Columbia.

I'd known that all of these places existed before, of course. I'd gone to school, after all, earned a B- in geography. But it was different, somehow, to look over the sheer enormity of the world, the expanse of blue oceans and sun-bleached earth, so much bigger than the farm I'd traipsed over as a child. I wanted to visit those places one day, wanted to set my foot on every hemisphere, every continent, every country, every city.

Maybe I was attracted to the atlas because I knew now that it was impossible, traveling around the world, a fruit of the forbidden tree.

Maybe in a different life. But not in this one.

# # #

One Saturday night in the early days of October, Will and I were sitting at the counter. I was slurping soda up through a straw, leaning back in the chair. I was beginning to show – not too noticeably, still able to be hidden with loose-fitting shirts. It would be another month or so before the truth would be out in the open, protruding from my stomach.

"So," Will said. "You come from Ohio?"

"Mm-hm," I said, sipping my Coke. "Right in-between Columbus and Cincinnati."

"Jesus," he said. "No wonder you talk like that."

I stilled. "Talk like what?"

Will fidgeted. "You just have a little bit of an accent. That's all."

"An accent? What kind of accent?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you insulting me, William? Because I'll have you know-"

"William?" He looked as if he'd just choked on his own spit. "Christ, Libre. My name is Will. You got that? My mother's the only one that calls me William, and that's only when I'm in trouble. About-to-fetch-a-switch trouble."

I arched an eyebrow. "Your parents beat you with a switch?"

"No. But my mother's told me more than a few times that she's considering getting one." I gurgled a laugh, covering my lips as Coke dribbled down my chin. I reached for a paper napkin and wiped the mess away. Will grinned at me. "You're really a mess, aren't you?"

"I can't help it," I said, swatting his arm. "Anyway, I've told you about my life."

"Sort of," he said. "All you've really told me is about where you grew up. I don't know hardly anything about your family, not really."

"There's not much to know," I said. "You know about Nicoline and my mother." I looked down at the counter.

"And those are the only members of your family?"

I looked up at him. "No." I pushed away my Coke bottle, stomach twisting.

Will was quiet for a minute. "You know, my grandfather died when I was seven."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He was a nice guy, too. My whole family's Irish – Irish Catholic. We all grew up in Brooklyn." He paused. "You haven't lived in New York for too long, but since it looks like you're going to be taking up permanent residence here, I might as well tell you: there are certain types of people that live in each of the boroughs."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "The boroughs?"

Will nodded. "Think of them as neighborhoods, alright? Way back, a bunch of little cities got mashed together into New York. Those cities became boroughs – Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island, and the Bronx."

"We live in the Bronx," I said slowly, testing the words on my tongue.

"Right." He traced a shape on the counter. "Well, all the foreigners live in Brooklyn."

"I knew that, too, I think," I said. He looked at me in surprise. "I read a book when I was in grade school," I explained. "Called _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."_

"Never heard of it," he said.

"You should really read it," I said. "It's about this poor girl living up in Brooklyn, back in 1900, or something like that. Her family's broke, she's trying to survive." I paused. "It's helped, actually. With where I am now."

He squinted at me. "Maybe I'll give that a shot."

"You should," I said. "But, anyway. You were saying, about your grandfather?"

"Right. So, anyway, I'm a fourth-generation American. My grandfather was the first one in my family to be born here, in America." He hesitated. "He was a great guy, my grandfather. Irish as hell, but then you can be, in Brooklyn. Half the damn place is either Irish Catholic or Jewish. Or Italian. Or Polish."

"Right," I said, lips twitching.

"Anyway, when my grandfather died, my mom fell apart. Really just began to fray at the edges, like one of those old quilts you've got tossed over your couch. Wouldn't get out of her bed for days – kind of like your mom, now that I think about it." Will was quiet for a minute. "One day, I came home from school, and my parents were in the middle of a massive argument. Voices raised to the point of screaming." He chuckled darkly. "The people in the neighboring tenements were pissed.

"Anyway, I hear my dad shouting. 'You still have a family.' That's all he says, over and over again. Because as it turns out, my mom was so consumed by Granddad's death that she couldn't take a minute to look around at the family she had left. She was so absorbed in what she didn't have that she couldn't see what she _did_ have."

We sat there in silence. I sipped my Coke while he grabbed a towel from behind the counter and started wiping the leftover grease from the scratched linoleum.

Then I spoke.

"I have three brothers," I said. "All older than me. My oldest brother – his name is Lovett – he got drafted into the war a few years ago. He's home now, to help my dad with the harvest. Got leave to help out at home."

Will nodded. "That's pretty decent of the army."

"Yeah." I sipped my Coke. "I have two twin brothers – Fitz and Martel. Fitz is moody as hell, and we're not on great terms, but I think we'll get there eventually." I smiled. "And then there's Martel. He's gayer than… Well, I don't exactly know what's super gay. But I know that he's gay, that much is for sure."

Will grinned. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," I said, lips tugging upward. "And my dad – well, did I ever tell you about his obsession for gardening tools?"

He smiled. "No, but I'm intrigued, I can tell you that much."

We stayed there for another hour or so, just talking, voices bubbling up and out. I told Will about my family, he told me about his. He grew up in Brooklyn with five younger siblings – unlike me, he was the oldest in the family, the stalwart supporter. His parents had gotten him through high school, which, he said, was an achievement in itself. He was hoping to save up one day to go to college, but for now he was waiting tables.

He was Will.

# # #

Fitz came to visit in mid-October.

There was no big preamble, no warning at all. One day, he showed up at Aunt Lise's door, arms crossed over his chest. "We need to talk," he said.

I just stared at him. It was morning, smoggy sunlight filtering through the sole window in Aunt Lise's apartment, early enough that the skyline was a black silhouette against a periwinkle sky, a half-finished painting. Frank, John, and Mary were still asleep; their father's snoring could be heard through the walls. Aunt Lise was working the graveyard shift at a factory.

"Fitz?" I croaked, rubbing my eyes.

"Yeah," he said flatly. "It's me." He peered over my shoulder, a funny expression on his face. "Is that where you're sleeping? The couch?"

"Um-hm," I said.

His expression flickered before returning to his trademark blasé mask. "Well. Can you come and get a cup of coffee with me, or what?"

I hesitated, leaning against the door. "Are you going to pay?"

Fitz rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll pay. Are you gonna come?"

I looked him up and down. His hair was tousled, his chin covered in a five o'clock shadow. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "Okay," I said. "Just let me get dressed."

# # #

I took him to the diner. I was working the afternoon shift that day, so I sat at the counter, wrapping my fingers around a cup of tea. It wasn't the same as coffee. Just another sacrifice I'd had to make.

"Alright," I said. "What gives?"

Fitz pursed his lips. "I'm leaving the farm."

I blinked. "Um…" For a moment, I couldn't think of anything to say. "What?"

"I'm leaving the farm," he said, taking a swig of coffee. He looked down at his cup, an oily sheen glistening over the top of the liquid, steam rising in thick, ropy braids. "Things haven't been good since you left, Libre."

"I've been talking to Lovett," I said. "He told me everything's fine."

"Yeah, well." Fitz leaned back in his barstool. "Lovett is a liar."

"How so?" I asked.

Fitz laughed bitterly. "Where do I start?" He stared out the window for a moment, at a woman with smudged makeup and wrinkled clothing, her stilettos dangling from her fingers by the straps. She was doing the walk of shame. It was a Saturday morning – if I stared long and hard enough on the street, I'd see another five exactly like her walk by. "Dad's a fucking train wreck. Martel moved out."

My eyes widened. "Martel moved out?"

Fitz nodded. "Just a few days ago. He's going to Seattle, apparently."

"Seattle?" I echoed.

"In Washington," he said. "He's going to start a new life there, far as I can figure. It's not hard to see why." He stopped. "Dad's not good, Libre. Not good at all." He slid his cup of coffee away from him. "Look, here's the thing. Dad has Lovett to help him out with the harvest this year, but that's the only reason he's making it. Pretty soon, Lovett's gonna have to go back to Vietnam, and I'm not sure that Dad's going to be able to carry on."

"And you're not going to stick around to help," I said, realization sinking into my skin.

"I never intended to stay in Ohio forever, Lili," Fitz said, reverting back to my old name. "Neither did Martel. It wasn't exactly that I wanted to imitate Nicoline, spiriting off to California, but…"

"I get it, Fitz," I said quietly. "I'm not blaming you."

"Lovett was furious," Fitz said ruefully.

I put my head in my hands. "Lovett was the only one of us who always intended to stay on the farm forever," I said. "If things had gone like they should've, he would've been the one to inherit the farm, take care of Dad and Grandmother..." I trailed off. "What's going to happen to Grandmother?"

"She's going off to a nursing home," Fitz said. "By her own request. Although Dad said he was going to try and change her mind."

I sighed. "We're falling apart, aren't we?"

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. The bottom line is, I'm eighteen now. So is Fitz. We turned eighteen last summer. Dad asked us to stay on for the summer, and we were going to leave next autumn. Well, fall's here, but it doesn't look like I'll be leaving anytime soon if things carry on like they are."

"I never heard anything about this," I said.

"That's because _Maman_ didn't want it," he said. " _Maman_ wanted to us to stay behind forever. You know how she was." He paused. "But now she's gone, and in a way, I think Dad's gone, too. Lovett knows it. I don't want a life on the farm, Libre."

I stared at the wall. "There are no easy answers." I looked down at my hands. "God, Fitz, I don't know. Maybe a year ago I would've told you to go back."

"But now?" he asked.

I wiped my eyes hastily. "I'm never going to get a chance to travel the world, Fitz. Not for a very long time. Probably not ever." My lower lip wobbled. "A few months ago, I would've told you to go back to help Dad. Now I say go and live." A tear spilled down my cheek. "I'm never going to get the chance. It's my fault. I fucked up." I held my arms close to my body. "Go around the world, Fitz. Go to Amsterdam and Moscow and London and Paris and everywhere that I won't. Just send me a postcard every once in a while, okay?"

Fitz looked at me for a long time. "Have you ever tried to contact him?"

"Who?" I said, scrubbing my face.

"Him. The guy that did this to you."

My hands stilled. "No."

"Could you? If you wanted to, I mean?"

I exhaled shakily. "Yes."

"Does he know?"

Wordlessly, I shook my head.

Fitz paused. "Do you think it would do any good?"

"No."

He sighed, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I leaned in. "I'm sorry," he said. "For acting like such a dickhead at the beginning of the summer, I mean."

I shrugged. "I deserved it."

"No, you didn't." He raked a hand through his hair. "You'll be living with your punishment for the rest of your life. I didn't need to tack on another." He paused. "Are you happy here? In New York, I mean?"

"I don't know." I closed my eyes. "I think… I think it's better than it would be if I'd stayed at home. But that doesn't mean it's home yet."

Fitz nodded. "Give it time." He tipped his coffee cup back, swallowing the last few dregs. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For understanding." Fitz's mouth set. "I know what I'm doing is wrong. I know I should stay home. I'm not asking for people to cheer me on." He looked down at his hands. "I just want them to understand." He stopped. "Libre, if you ever need anything, I'm there, alright?"

I looked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I can't say I'll be able to be much help. But I'm there, anyway."

I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder and taking a sip of my own coffee. "Thank you, Fitz."

"Seems like we've got a lot to be thankful for this morning."

I glanced outside at the women doing their walk of shame, the sun rising over the skyline. "I think that's the thing about losing everything," I said quietly. "It puts things into perspective. Makes life more precious. Makes you thankful for the little things."

We sat there for a long time watching the sun, drinking coffee and leaning into each other, sharing the weight of all that we had lost, propped up by the little things.

# # #

"What are you doing for Halloween?" Will asked.

"Me?" I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. "I don't know. Probably heaving into the toilet. Why?"

Will's face twisted. "Morning sickness bad?"

I laughed dryly. "That's a way of putting it."

"I was just wondering if you wanted to dress up," he said. "You know, get in costume. Maybe hit a Halloween party – one of those gigs where everybody roofies your drinks. Let loose for just one night. I know you hardly do anything fun."

"I have to save up," I said. "I don't have any other choice." I thought worriedly of my little tin box. There still wasn't near enough to carry me very far. I had a feeling my maternity leave was going to be short-lived and stressful.

"Well, penny-scrounger," Will said. "What do you say about the party?"

"As enticing as it sounds," I said, "I'm going to have to pass."

His face fell. "Really?"

"Really," I said. "I just…" I dragged a hand through my hair. "My life isn't like that anymore, okay?"

"Like what?"

"Carefree. I don't have the luxury of going out and getting wasted."

"Nobody said-"

"I know what you meant," I told him. "And it's a totally sweet offer. But I'm going to have to pass."

He looked at me. "How do you do it? Go through life like that?"

I leaned on the table. "I guess I think of it as a sort of penance."

"Explain," he said, arms folded.

"I messed up, alright?" My cheeks flushed. "I made an irreversible mistake. I got myself into this mess, and now I have to pay the price. My childhood is cut short. Responsibility's come knocking at my door." I hunched up my shoulders. "It's a punishment."

"A self-imposed one," Will said. He took a deep breath. "When are you going to stop, Libre?"

"When am I going to stop what?"

"Punishing yourself?"

I chewed my lower lip. "When I know I've done right by them."

"Who's 'them'?"

"Them," I said, putting my hand on my stomach. "My kid. I'll stop punishing myself when I know I've done right by them."

Will stopped, frowning slightly. "That could be a very long time."

"You're right. It could." I looked down at my shoes. "It will be."

I saw his mouth open, as if he were going to start arguing with me, but then he just looked at me, really looked. He saw me from my long, dark hair, from my exhausted eyes to my rounding middle, from my gnawed fingernails to my dirty, secondhand gym shoes. He saw me for what I was, what I would be.

"Okay," he said very quietly. "Okay."

# # #

Halloween came and passed. Frank, John, and Mary tossed sheets over their heads and went as ghosts, but I snuggled into the couch, closing my eyes. Before I knew it, the date was November first, and Halloween had come and passed.

I hadn't even noticed.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Please review!**


	13. Chapter 3: November

**A/N: I'm back! Finals are over, so updates should be coming regularly from here on out. (Hooray!)**

 **Note #1: Thanks as always goes to my fab beta, Rosestream!**

 **Note #2: More thanks goes to wonderful reviewers! You guys seriously make my day.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own, yada yada.**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

Three

 _November_

"What do you mean, you've never been to the Met?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just never really got the time."

"You've been living in New York for three months," Will said, shaking his head. "How the hell have you never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?"

"I've never done a lot of things in New York," I said. "I don't like spending money unnecessarily."

"Try at all," Will scoffed.

"Well, I don't make that much, and I have to help Aunt Lise with the rent. I save whatever extra cash I get. I'll be on maternity leave soon."

He shook his head. "You're a miser, Libre. What about the Museum of Natural History, then?"

"Nope."

"The Empire State Building?"

"Nada."

"The Statue of Liberty?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Central Park?"

I brightened. "Now _that,_ I've been to. Not the zoo, though. Or the carousel. Mostly I just walked around." I thought about the man I'd seen there before, the one that seemed to tread on sparks. The one that struck up a conversation with a little girl. The one with electric blue eyes. An involuntary shiver went up my spine.

"Good God," Will said, oblivious to my sudden discomfort. "Three months, woman. What do you do with your life?"

"Beats me." I wiped down the table. My stomach was getting bigger by the day. I was now four months pregnant. I could still get away with looking as if I'd simply gained a little weight, but it was getting harder. By the time 1973 rolled around in a month and a half, I'd be noticeable. Life was going to get a lot more difficult. "I don't know where the time goes."

Will studied me. "That's it."

"That's what?"

"I'm going to take you around New York," he said. "We're going to be tourists, you and I. You've never lived until you've seen the giant blue whale."

"The what?"

Will grinned. "You'll see."

# # #

The next Saturday, Will took me to the American Museum of Natural History, the great big pile of stone with the columned entrance, imperious and important-looking, more like a government building than a museum. "And don't even worry about money," he warned. "It's on me."

I began to protest, but he cut me short with a look. "Trust me, Libre," he said. "It'll be worth it to see you actually crack a genuine grin."

He bought me a hot dog out of a cart on the front steps, a foil-wrapped concoction dripping with ketchup, mustard, relish, and onions. It steamed through the aluminum foil, and I yelped as it burned my fingers. Will laughed. "Trust me," he said. "Just take a bite, will you? Stop worrying about everything so damn much and live in the moment."

"I don't know, Will," I said. "I'm more of a cheese coney kind of girl."

"A cheese what-ey?"

"It's a hot dog, but with chili and cheese," I explained. His face contorted, and he pantomimed gagging. "What?" I cried. "I'll have you know it's quite delicious!"

"You're a true Ohio girl by heart, Libre. Now eat the hot dog."

I frowned, but took a bite with trepidation. As I chewed, the condiments sinking into my tongue, tart and sweet and sour and salty, my eyes widened. "Holy shit," I said, taking another bite. Will laughed, and though I shoved him, I couldn't deny it was the second coming of sorts. Maybe not _the_ second coming, but _a_ second coming, certainly.

Then he pulled me inside the museum, paying for the tickets and effectively ignoring my outraged cries. We went from the cold, nipping wind of November in New York City to the warmth and relative stuffiness of the museum, the air wrapping around my shoulders like a warm blanket. We walked through the exhibits, the ceiling dark above us, the floors polished, the wax figures impassive and impossibly still. It was like a series of three-dimensional paintings, and I wanted to reach out, brush my fingers along planed faces and plastic flowers. Will seemed to be making a beeline for one specific exhibit, face set and determined. "Wait," I said. "I want to read the plaques. Will, you're spoiling this for me!"

"Oh, be quiet," he said. "Just come with me, alright?" He took my hand, and I followed him, heels screeching on the floors, and we made our way into the oceans exhibit, past dioramas and bronze plaques, my shouts echoing through the halls.

And then I realized just what Will wanted me to see.

It was an enormous room, circular and domed, filled with a thousand different people, their voices reverberating on the walls. It was crammed with a thousand different miniature exhibits, bubbling with life and vitality and energy, more bronze plaques than I could read in a lifetime. It was beautiful, ornate, breathtaking. But these were things I noticed later. What I noticed first was the whale.

It was massive, monstrous, really. Painted bright blue, it hung, suspended in air, from the ceiling, nearly spanning the room in its entirety. I stood beneath it, staring up at its gray underbelly, at its fins spread outward, at its blank expression, its empty, gleaming eyes. My mouth hung ajar, and I felt Will standing beside me, watching my expression, my features morph.

I took a step forward, eyes glued to the whale. It was so big, much bigger than I'd imagined. It was vast and insurmountable and…

"What do you think?" Will asked quietly.

"I've never seen anything like it before," I said honestly, voice hoarse.

He slipped his hand in mine. "That's the point."

I thought then of Nicoline, and for the first time since her death, I didn't think of her with anger or grief or sadness. I thought of her with a faint longing, with rue. "She would have loved this," I whispered.

"Who?"

"Nicoline. She lived for this kind of thing. Loved anything extraordinary. Different." I smiled. "I wish she could have seen it."

"You never know. Maybe she did."

I exhaled. "Maybe she did," I agreed, picturing Nicoline in my shoes, staring up at the life-sized blue whale, taken aback by the enormity, the foreignness, the newness of it all, and smiled, a real, genuine smile, just like Will had wanted.

His hand squeezed mine, and right then, standing under the big blue whale hanging from the ceiling of the American Museum of Natural History, I felt an electric jolt travel up my arm.

I hadn't felt that kind of jolt since Ares.

# # #

"Libre, where are you going?"

I paused, midway through tying my scarf around my neck, buttoning my coat up. Aunt Lise stood in the doorway, watching me, her eyes narrowed. I had been out of the house more and more lately, on adventures with Will, but while Aunt Lise watched with slitted eyes, she'd never voiced a complaint. I contributed to the rent on time, made steady pay. But now, instead of taking walks around Central Park or lying on the couch with a book, I was out playing tourist, eating hot dogs and traipsing through the streets of New York, from Harlem to Staten Island.

"I'm going to the Empire State Building," I answered, tossing my scarf over my shoulder.

"The Empire State Building?" Aunt Lise's eyebrows raised an inch and a half. "By yourself?"

"No," I said. "With Will."

"Ah." Aunt Lise paused. "You know, Libre, I've been pregnant before."

"You don't say," I said dryly, nudging one of John's plastic toys with the toe of my shoe. It skittered across the scratched floorboards.

"When I was pregnant with Frank," Aunt Lise continues, "Francis – your uncle – found another woman." Her eyes fixated on the cabinets as if she were no longer present in the room, but far away, taken somewhere else entirely. Her fists balled at her sides, her knuckles white. "I was no longer beautiful to him. I was no longer available to him." She swallowed. "And so he no longer wanted me."

"Aunt Lise-"

"You think this boy – this Will – is different, don't you? Because he knows your secret and doesn't turn away from you?"

"He _is_ different," I said firmly.

"No," Aunt Lise said. "He's not. All boys want the same thing, Libre. And when you can no longer give it to him, he will no longer want you."

"Just because Uncle Francis is a lying, twisted snake, doesn't mean-"

"Yes," she said flatly. "It does mean." She peered at me. "And who are you, to tell me about men? Who are you to presume you know anything?" She gestured at my stomach. "Clearly, you lack more than a little expertise in that matter."

I jerked back as if I'd been slapped. "Will and I are just friends, Aunt Lise."

"Tell me if that's still true when he breaks your heart," she replied, and I stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind me. It echoed with the curses of our Puerto Rican neighbors.

# # #

It was nighttime by the time Will and I reached the top of the Empire State Building, but the sky wasn't dark. The sky wasn't ever dark in New York City, not really, not with the lamplights of a thousand residents and the orange glare of streetlights on every corner. The skyline was lit up like a string of fairy lights, and I gripped the edge of the Empire State Building, quiet and brooding, Will silent beside me.

"What gives?" he asked finally, turning to face me.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Libre," Will said. "What's the matter?"

"I don't want to talk about it." I closed my eyes.

"What don't you want to talk about?"

"Nothing, alright? Nothing." I hugged my shoulders. "Nothing at all."

Will sighed, leaning on the railing. "Well, at any rate. Do you like it?" He gestured toward the view, his mouth tight.

"Yeah," I said. "It's beautiful." And it was, the half-dark, fairy-light skyline, the sound of tires screeching on asphalt so far below, the smell of car exhaust and smog. The air was thinner up here, so thin I could feel it slipping through my fingers like cool silk.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and I glanced up at him, surprised. A familiar electric jolt electrified my veins, landing in a semi-pleasant pit in my stomach. "You looked cold," he said, eyes open and wide innocently.

I shook my head. "You're a scoundrel, Will."

"A scoundrel?"

"A scoundrel," I repeated, and though it was true, I didn't remove his arm.

# # #

One weekend, I brought out the metal lockbox from its place underneath the couch and withdrew a few neatly folded bills. Will was right; I had become a miser, paranoid about money. I supposed if worst came to worst, I had Lovett, Martel, or even Fitz to lean on, but I had left that life behind. My pride might prevent me from picking up the phone, and so I meticulously organized my money, keeping everything tidy and straight.

But that weekend, I was not just counting the bills. I pocketed a few slips of paper and set my jaw, locking the box and shoving it underneath the couch. After Aunt Lise's story about Uncle Francis, I was wary of leaving my possessions out in the open. I kept my things underneath the sagging couch, and while they collected dust bunnies, at least they were safe.

I went out the door, walked down the street, took the subway to a shoe store. My Converse were beginning to kill me; my feet were covered with blisters when I got home. I was on my feet all day, every day, and I needed a good pair of shoes, a suitable pair of shoes. Something like nurses and doctors wore.

I wandered through the aisles of shoes, glancing sideways at tennis shoes, penny loafers, cowboy boots, leather boots. Finally, my eyes landed on a pair of Dr. Scholls. Cushiony, padded, soft, ideal old lady shoes. I was sixteen and pregnant, and I didn't have the luxury of shoving aside miracles when I saw them, ugly and old as they might be.

I made my way to the counter, plopped the Dr. Scholls down, and forked over a few bucks, my cheeks flushed with shame. My punishment for pleasure was excruciating and never-ending, just as all good punishments are.

When I got home, I unlaced my Converse and shoved them under the couch. I had a distinct feeling I wouldn't be needing them ever again.

# # #

I was right.

# # #

"You thought of a name yet?"

I paused, midway through wiping down the counters. It was late on a Friday night, and I'd elected to work the graveyard shift at the twenty-four-hour diner, always in search of the almighty dollar. I furrowed my eyebrows, glancing at Will. He was sitting at the counter, sipping a Coke and munching on fries dripping with grease. He was watching me, his eyebrow cocked high.

"A name?" I said. "What do you mean, a name?"

Will gestured toward my bulging stomach. "A name," he repeated. "You know, for the kid."

I pressed my hand to my belly, swallowing unsteadily. "Oh. A name." Actually, I hadn't given it much thought. The child in my stomach had yet to become a reality. As of now, it was simply an insurmountable obstacle, the sort that had uprooted me from my home and destroyed my future, the sort that would be my redemption. "No, not really."

As I spritzed the counter down, Will looked surprised. "Really? Why not?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just haven't found the time."

"Too busy working and counting your money?" he guessed.

"Too busy hanging out with you," I told him with a grin, and he smiled back. My heart fluttered, though I warned myself firmly to be wary of this boy. He might be one of my few shining stars, but he could just as easily be snuffed out.

"As much as I'd like to take credit for being such a distraction," Will said, "I'm more inclined to think it's the former."

"O ye of little faith," I said dryly, wiping down the countertop. "God, people are pigs." I wrinkled my nose at the pile of crumbs cupped in my palm. An elderly man shambled out of the diner, the door shutting behind him, the little silver bell tinkling. "Have a nice day!" I called, deflating. We were the only two left in the diner now.

"Anyway," Will said. "Since I've brought the topic up, what do you think you would name the kid?"

I hesitated, folding the rag on the countertop. I reached up a hand to massage my shoulders. "God, my back is killing me," I said. "I swear, my boobs have doubled in size since I got pregnant."

Will's cheeks flushed, and I smiled. Good. This was the sort of relationship we had – a platonic friendship, nothing more. I enjoyed making fun of him, making him squirm. The last romantic relationship I'd taken part in had been smashed to bits and pieces. "Ugh. Can you not, please?"

"Fine, you pansy," I said.

"Did you just call me a pansy?" he cried, indignant.

"If the shoe fits…" I trailed off, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

"Quit trying to distract me," he snapped. "It won't work. I really want to know what your names would be. You've got to have at least a few on your mind, floating somewhere in your subconscious."

"Floating in my subconscious," I repeated flatly.

"Libre," Will said, groaning.

I huffed. "You know, I don't even know the sex of the baby. How would I pick out a name if I don't know if it's going to be a girl or a boy?"

"You pick out a unisex name," Will said. "Or you just have a name for a girl and a name for a boy."

"Well, don't you have all the answers." I plucked a plastic cup off the shelf and went over to the soda dispenser, filling it up with a glass of water. I took a brownish lemon, squeezed the juice into the water, and plopped it into the drink. It clacked against the ice cubes before sliding to the bottom.

"C'mon, Libre. Humor your good old pal, will you?"

I groused, raking a hand through my hair. "Oh, I don't know." I traced a circle on the counter with my fingertip. "I suppose a girl would have to be named Nicoline. Nicoline Amorette Lise Bellerose."

Will blinked. "Never thought about it, you say. That was quite a mouthful for never thought about it."

"Amorette was my mother's name," I explained. "Lise is the name of the aunt who's been kind enough to take me in. And, of course, Nicoline was my sister. Nicoline Amorette Lise Bellerose."

He stared at me, his gaze impenetrable. My breath caught. His eyes were easy to get lost in, shifting tones of gray, one minute the color of the Atlantic on a cloudy day, the next the shade of the sky just before a raging summer storm. "It's a beautiful name," he said quietly, roughly. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze. "What about a boy?"

I sighed, taking a sip of my water. "William Lovett Bellerose. Will for you, Lovett for my brother. He was the one I first told about my pregnancy. We're…" I blinked, swiping at my cheek. Tears were always close at hand nowadays. "We're awfully close. He got drafted, went to Vietnam a few years ago. But we're still close. I love him."

But Will looked as if he hadn't heard a word I'd said. His eyes were strangely bright. "You'd name your kid after me?"

I stared at my hands. "Don't look so surprised. You saved me, Will. You're the only friend I've got. You were nice enough not to run for the hills when you heard my story." I swallowed thickly. "If not for you, my world would be a very different place. A much darker place, now that I think about it."

He stared at me. "I don't know what to say." His voice was strangely rough.

"Don't say anything," I said with a shaky laugh. "God only knows I love to change my mind. I might end up naming it Ferdinand, or Bert, or something equally as heinous."

"Still," Will said. "Thank you, Libre."

I exhaled, walking around the counter. I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was soft, smelling faintly of aftershave and mint. "You're the one that deserves my thanks, Will."

His cheeks turned bright red, his eyes wide. "Nuh – uh –" he stammered.

"You're cute when you get flustered," I said, laughing a little. I went back around the counter, picking up my rag and the Windex. I squirted the counter, swiped it with my dishtowel. The scent of antiseptic was heavy on the air, almost – but not quite – able to erase the lingering smell of mint.

I liked it that way.

# # #

I stayed at Aunt Lise's for Thanksgiving. It was a somber affair, an assortment of ambrosia, piping hot yams, and a honey-baked ham, no traditional turkey. She did make stuffing, and I chipped in with my trademark pumpkin pie, splurging and buying a bit of gourmet cinnamon to sprinkle on top.

Back in Ohio, Thanksgiving was an Event with a capital 'E'. We gathered around the table, our whole family and a few friends from down the road. My mother had bought an extra-large dining table for just that purpose. We brought out my mother and father's wedding china, shook out the pristine white tablecloth from the armoire. We stuffed wax candles in silver candle holders, let the flames flicker over the table. We splurged on an enormous turkey, one so big it took both my mother and me just to lift it. My mother, Nicoline, and I would cook, listening to the radio and humming while we whipped up stuffing, ambrosia, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, corn pudding, corn on the cob, blueberry cobbler, and pumpkin pie – among other things. We cooked up fresh apple cider and made applesauce from scratch. After we were finished cooking, we sat down at the table, fifteen or sixteen of us Ohioan farmers, and had a dinner that lasted for hours. My parents permitted each of us to have one glass of wine, though Fitz always snuck at least three, and Nicoline gobbled down an entire bottle. After we were finished with our peculiar-tasting wine, we could have the cider (hard for adults, virgin for the adolescents). My brothers and father were in charge of cleanup.

This year, I cleaned and cooked. It was my gift to them, for letting me crash on their couch. The dinner lasted barely a half an hour – my young cousins jumped up every few moments, reluctant to stay still for longer than five minutes. It was nothing like the Thanksgivings I'd had at home.

Though I supposed New York was my home now.

It certainly didn't feel that way.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, I wrapped up a piece of my famous pumpkin pie and brought it to the diner. After the dinner rush had passed, and Will and I were the only ones in the diner, I brought out a small ceramic plate. On it, I placed the pumpkin pie, sprinkling a fresh bit of gourmet cinnamon and nutmeg over top. I swirled a bit of whipped cream on the crust, withdrew a dented fork, and set the plate down in front of Will. He was watching me, his eyes unreadable. He'd taken to looking at me that way often lately.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I said.

Will looked down at the pie. "This is for me?"

"Yeah," I said. "You know, as a thanks. And a gift."

He glanced up at me. "I don't deserve you."

"Pah," I said. "The reverse is true, my friend. Now eat, will you? It's my secret recipe. _Maman_ always says…" I trailed off, a lump lodging in my throat. "Or, well, my mother used to say it was the best she'd ever tasted. Which was high praise, believe me."

He nodded, picked up his fork, and carved out an enormous bite. I arched an eyebrow, gauging his expression as he chewed. His eyes widened, his hand going to his mouth. "Oh, my God," he said. "This is really good. Really good, Libre."

"Told you so," I said smugly. "I'm the pumpkin pie maestro."

Will laughed, eagerly gobbling up the remains of his pie.

# # #

I love the sound of his laugh. Always have, always will. It's a part of me, Will's laugh, constant as the beating of my heart.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	14. Chapter 4: December

**A/N: I'm back! Like I said, updates should be coming more regularly from now on, with the help of my fab beta. Cheers!**

 **Note #1: Thanks, as always, go to Rosestream. (Seriously, you're amazing.)**

 **Note #2: More thanks go to reviewers, who are fabulous. I'm giving you all internet brownies. (Only, ones I bought from the store, because I suck at cooking.)**

 **Disclaimer: You know what, after all of this time, it secretly turns out that I'm Rick Riordan, writing on . (Seriously, no. Come on. Don't own.)**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

Four

 _December_

In the early days of December, when the weather went from biting to freezing, frost glossing the windows of New York City, meteorologists on our fuzzy, bunny-ear television advising woolen hats and gloves, I got a letter in the mail from Martel.

It was the first news I'd gotten from him since Fitz had visited. I ripped the envelope open in a frenzy, eager for any shred, any remnant, of my home, my brother.

 _November 30, 1972_

 _Dear Libre,_

 _Thanksgiving was uneventful, nothing like the Thanksgivings we used to have. You remember those? Maman used to make enough mashed potatoes and gravy to feed a village. Fortunate, considering we always seemed to have a village to feed. She always was overly welcoming, wasn't she? I should probably stop, considering you're probably in tears by now. I've heard that pregnant women can be very emotional._

 _Anyway, Thanksgiving in Seattle was boring. Seattle, in general, is incredible, though, much more preferable than Ohio. Last weekend, I went up to Anacortes – it's a city near a group of islands a bit north of Seattle. You can take a ferry out to one of the main islands and stand near the front of the boat, let the whole world suck you in. Sea salt and sea spray, all of that. You've always been the writer in the family, not me. There are all of these tiny little islands with inns and shops, a whole tiny world, but with orca whales. I'm thinking I might just save up enough to buy an inn of my own. I met a guy when I was in Anacortes – his name is Jon. He's wonderful; we've been talking on the phone regularly. I hope to see him again soon._

 _How are things in New York? Any news with the baby? I told Jon about you, and he commends you for what you're doing. He knows plenty of teenage mothers that didn't even try to help their kids; just live paycheck-to-paycheck. He wants to meet you._

 _You should come and visit us for Christmas if you're not going home to visit Papa. Maybe you can do both. I spoke to Fitz recently, and he said you were working yourself pretty hard at the diner. That sounds like you. You always were stubborn and determined. In a good way, though, of course._

 _I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner about Seattle. I just envied you, I suppose, going off to New York. I know you're not living the high life there, but it was better than staying behind in Ohio, at least to me._

 _Call me if you're interested at Christmas. The number's (xxx) xxx-xxxx._

 _Your brother,_

 _Martel_

I stared at the letter, my hands trembling infinitesimally. Christmas. In a little under a month, I could see my brother again. Maybe I could even stop by the farm on the way, give my love to my father. Fitz was still traveling the world – I'd gotten a call from him the other night, from Florence – and Lovett was in Vietnam, but I might just be able to see my remaining family.

I let out a whoop loud enough to be heard from the Upper East Side.

# # #

"God, it's cold out," Will said, rubbing his shoulders as he walked through the door to the diner. It was a slow, lazy Sunday afternoon, lemon sunlight streaming through the finger-spotted windows, landing in dappled rays on the checkered floor tiles. I leaned back on the counter, resting my hand on my stomach. It was bulging now, my apron landing oddly on my hips. It had become a sort of habit to splay my palms on my stomach.

"It is December," I commented wryly. He sat down on a chair before me, his nose pink from the cold. I had the sudden urge to kiss it, and I shoved the impulse away. _Stupid._

"I know it's December," Will said, looking cross. "I just hate winter in New York, is all."

I mock-gasped. "You hate something about New York? Will Callahan, you rascal." I play-swatted him with a dirty dishrag. "And here I thought New York was the only thing you ever loved. Pft."

His face grew serious for a moment, his mouth tugging down. His eyes got that unnerving gaze, the one that upended my whole world, made me forget my name. "Not the only thing," he said quietly. "Just one of the things."

I swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Well," I said. "At any rate. You can't possibly hate all of December."

"And why is that?"

"It's Christmastime," I said as if it should be obvious. "You're Catholic, aren't you? My dad used to keep a giant wooden manger in our living room, full of real hay and tiny painted dolls to represent Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, all that jazz. We even had a little donkey and a few sheep." I sighed, lost in a haze of nostalgia. My homesickness was ebbing away bit by bit, slow but steady. Now, instead of heartbreaking longing when I thought of home, I felt a slight tightening in my chest, the golden tinge of nostalgia.

"Yeah, Mom set up one of those," Will said. He cocked his head. "You look sad."

"Who, me?" I flashed him a smile. "I'm positively radiant."

Will shook his head dismissively. "You're always radiant." My cheeks flushed at the praise, flippant as it was. Or perhaps it wasn't flippant at all. With Will, I was never quite sure. "I just meant you looked a little down."

"Oh, that." I brushed aside a stray strand of mahogany hair, tucking it behind my ear. "I don't know. I'm always a little under the weather these days. You know, what with the vomiting in the evenings and mornings."

He wrinkled his nose. "Every day?"

"Most days," I acquiesced. "It's enough."

He paused. "Well," he said. "I might not know the cure to endless nausea, but I do know the cure to a bit of homesickness."

"What? How did you know?"

"Libre Bellerose," Will said, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes you're impossibly easy to read, and this is one of those times."

"Just sometimes?" I teased. "What about the other times?"

"Well, the other times," he said, "I can't understand you at all. I haven't the slightest idea what you're thinking. But I know enough by now to tell when you're missing something – or someone. Give a guy some credit, will you?"

I sighed. "Fine. What's your famous cure, anyway?"

Will grinned. "Come with me after your shift ends, and you'll see."

# # #

By the time my shift was over, the sky – quick to darken and bruise a purple-blue nowadays – was the color of dark-rinse denim. Will was waiting for me by the door, my ratty old coat and scarf in hand. "Get dressed, and hurry," he commanded.

I arched an eyebrow but did as he said. Will led me outside, his hand outstretched in a silent question. I threaded my fingers through his without thinking, a small smile on my face. Even through the layer of my own woolen gloves and his threadbare, fingerless cotton ones, I felt that increasingly-familiar electric jolt. _Oh, Libre. What are you doing?_

He led me out into the night. A group of servers was huddled near the corner, each of them with a cigarette wedged firmly in-between their fingers. The ashy gray smoke curled up into the sky. We waved, and they waved back. As soon as we turned our back, I heard them beginning to whisper, felt rather than saw some point my way. Will had been the only one to know about my pregnancy, but with my growing stomach, at least half of the staff had figured it out on their own, and the rest gleaned the gossip from idle chatter.

Will squeezed my hand, and I knew he heard them whispering, too. I glanced up, unsurprised to find his lips knotted together tightly. He was like that, protective and quick to defend. I gave him a squeeze in return. "It's alright," I said, my words nearly carried away by the brisk December chill.

"No," he muttered. "It's not."

But before I could argue, he stepped to the curb, my hand dropping limply to my side. He raised a hand, and a yellow taxicab, the color of the sunflowers my mother used to grow, screeched to a halt. "Will, no," I protested. "It's way too expensive. We can take the subways. I've got a can of pepper spray on me."

"Not at nighttime," he said.

"Will, don't be stupid." I crossed my arms.

"I should be saying the same to you, Libre. You're sixteen, pregnant, and beautiful. You are not about to take the subways in New York City at night, I don't care what you say." He gestured to the cab. "Now get in, before you and your stubborn miser personality get us into a shouting match in the middle of the street, yeah?"

I glared at him but did as he asked. "Next time, I'm arguing."

"I wouldn't expect any less," he replied. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be the Libre I know. And besides, that would be no fun, anyhow."

"Don't think you're going to make this better by flattering me."

"I wouldn't dare dream of it," Will said, before leaning forward in his seat. "Brooklyn," he told the cabbie, who nodded once before peeling away.

I had to admit, the cab was highly preferable to the subway. It was warm inside the car, steam fogging up the windows, and smelled far better than the garbage stench that lingered in the underground. Instead, it smelled of cologne, perfume, and the stale scent of cigarette smoke. "You're an asshole," I said, leaning my head on Will's shoulder. He smelled nice – like mint and aftershave, clean and fresh. So different than Ares had smelled, so different than the aroma of cigarettes and soap. But then, the two were different, dissimilar as could be.

Will kissed the top of my head. "I know," he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I very nearly sighed as he stroked my hair, melting into a pile of mush.

I didn't know what we were anymore. It seemed sometimes as if we were more than friends, but at other times, it seemed we were hardly even that. The only thing I knew for sure anymore was that I didn't want to lose him – was terrified of losing him, really. Losing Will might have just destroyed me.

"You smell good," I mumbled, almost unconsciously. As soon as I did, my eyes popped open in dismay.

He chuckled, his laugh rumbling in his chest. Again, I was struck by the physical differences between him and Ares. Will was long and lean, not so much muscle as a naturally thin figure, whereas Ares was all bulk and muscle. I preferred Will's physique. "You smell good, too," he said.

"Really? What do I smell like, coffee?"

He sniffed me. "No. More like rosemary and fabric softener."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Yes," Will said. "It's a very good thing."

We drove in silence for the rest of the ride, and though my eyes strayed to the meter more than a few times, mostly they fluttered open and shut as I was nestled against Will. It was wonderful, being so close to him, enveloped in mint and aftershave, his heartbeat echoing in my ears. I never wanted to get up. I wanted to drive forever in the backseat of that taxi, head resting on my best friend's shoulder.

Finally, Will leaned forward to give the cabbie more directions, and I straightened. We were in the heart of Brooklyn now, in the streets of cramped tenements and buildings that cowered in Manhattan's sinister shadow. "This is where you live?" I said, glancing out the window. A milkman was traveling door to door, creamy milk sloshing onto the cracked sidewalk.

"Not exactly here, but yes," he said. "I graduated high school last year, and my parents are letting me stay in my old room with my brother. They don't even make me pay rent or anything. They know I'm saving up for college, and that's what really matters to them, you know?" He was quiet for a minute. "They want me to have a good life, and to them, that's enough."

"And for you?"

"I don't want much in life," Will said. "It could've been a lot worse, you know? At least I have a future. That's more than most can boast."

"Myself included," I murmured.

He looked stricken. "No, that's not what I meant."

"It's okay, Will," I said. "I know what you meant." I put a comforting hand on his forearm, but he still looked upset. But before he could explain, the cab screeched to a halt on the sidewalk. I jerked forward, grabbing the edge of the seat to keep myself from flying forward.

"Oh, good," he said, his relief apparent. "Thank God. We're home."

Home. I wasn't even sure what it meant for me anymore.

Will got out of the taxi, but I stayed behind in the backseat for a moment. I handed the cabbie a few crumpled bills. "Here," I said. "For the fare. And whatever he says, don't let him pay you. I owe it to him."

"Whatever," the cabbie said. "Have a good night, miss."

"You too," I said, climbing out of the yellow car. As soon as my feet touched the pavement, the car rumbled down the street, leaving a trail of exhaust in its wake.

Will looked quizzical. "I didn't pay him."

"I know," I said. "I did."

He turned toward me, eyebrows furrowed. "Libre, you don't have to-"

"I know," I told him, "but I did anyway."

He shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You could start with a thank you." I crossed my arms, tapping my foot on the asphalt.

"Thank you," Will grumbled. "Even though you've now made me feel like a world-class jackass."

"My life's mission," I said sweetly, "is complete. But where are we, anyway?"

"We're home."

I glanced up. We stood in front of a tall umber building, shorter than the ones in the Bronx, but still taller than any back in my hometown. The windows were spotted and grimy, though a few were cracked open, allowing in the December frost. Voices flooded out onto the street, an entire argument in fluent Italian, a few moans that signified lovemaking, a baby's anguished wail. I caught a few glimpses through the open windows – a young girl was leafing through a tattered paperback novel on the rusted fire escape a few floors up, another woman was primping herself in front of the bathroom mirror with an eyelash curler, dressed in only scanty lingerie; a few boys were gathered out front, kicking rocks that clattered on the pavement. One held a can of spray paint loosely in his fist. The scent of marinara sauce, cabbage, and roast beef curled out onto the cold December air. It was a bustle of energy and excitement, all tucked into one building nestled in the heart of Brooklyn.

"It's beautiful," I said, and it was true.

He laughed. "Really? I thought we'd moved on from empty praises."

"No, I mean it," I said. "Really, Will. It's…" I trailed off. "I grew up on a farm, and it was beautiful in its own way, too. But it was also devoid of life, you know? There was hardly anyone around. But this-" I spread my arm out, gesturing to the building. "God. This happens to be one of the rare times when I'm telling the truth."

He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. "You're crazy," he said, taking my hand.

"Only a little."

"You, Libre Bellerose," he said, "are most definitely more than a little bit crazy. But that's alright." He flashed me a grin. "I am, too."

"Both of us off our rockers." I sighed. "What is the world coming to?"

"I really don't know," Will said. "But I do know that there's almost certainly some sort of very-Irish dinner waiting inside."

"What are we still doing out here, then?" I replied.

He took me inside, chuckling, and I couldn't help smiling.

# # #

Inside, the apartment building was different. It was more cramped, less beautiful, like makeup seen on a close-up on someone's face: clotted mascara, smudged lipstick, eyeshadow that shimmered unevenly in the lowlight. There was no rickety elevator, only a walkup. "Five stories tall," Will informed me. The off-white paint was chipped, yellowed, and peeling, the lights overhead flickering randomly. The hallways were impossibly narrow, and they were overflowing with people: potbellied old men dangling cigarettes from their fingers, a girl in a backward baseball cap, a mother not much older than me with a screaming baby plopped on her plump waist. I wondered what they thought of us, the Irish waiter with dreams of college holding the hand of a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl.

Still, the place was full of misfits. Screams echoed through the walls, and I was reminded a bit of Aunt Lise's apartment in the Bronx. It was noisy, just like that apartment, but there was a different atmosphere here. It wasn't the lack of Puerto Ricans – I saw a group of tanned individuals huddled in the living room, seen through an open doorway. There were more open doorways here than I could count, everybody's business out in the open. A few were hosting parties, the guests mingling, traveling from apartment to apartment, in various states of drunkenness and undress. It was like one giant community of people.

"It's not always like this," Will said into my ear. His breath tickled the hairs on the nape of my neck. "It's just because it's Saturday night. Friday and Saturday are the worst."

"Oh?" I said, feeling lightheaded.

Many of the people seemed to recognize Will. They each called out his name, more often his surname than his first. "Callahan!" they'd cry, their eyes flitting to me. "And who's this?"

"Libre," I said. "Libre Bellerose."

One old woman dressed in a turban, her fingers and neck laden with fake, egg-sized gemstones, gave me an appraising look. Her eyes went to my stomach. "Ah," she said. Her voice was scratchy. "You carry one of the godly born."

I went stock-still, but before I could turn around, ask more, ask just who she was, Will was tugging me down the hallway. "You alright?" he said. Apparently, he hadn't heard.

I could only manage a bare nod. It was like this in New York. Every time I'd forget a bit of the other world – not the one in which I'd always lived, but the one in which I was a temporary intruder – I'd see something to convince me that it had all been real, that the man with electric blue eyes really had stooped to talk to Beryl Grace in Central Park that day, that the man standing on the corner really did only have one eye, that the gypsy woman knew the father of my unborn child with a single glance.

Finally, we reached the fourth floor. Will stopped at a plain wooden door on the right-hand side, pulling out a brass key from his pocket. He twisted it in the lock and opened the door. "Go on in," he told me.

I glanced at the door warily but stepped over the threshold. Immediately, I was almost knocked over by the smell of strong whiskey and cabbage, boiled potatoes and roast meat. My ears rang with the clamor of six voices, and I stopped short. It was simmering hot, the heat thick as it wrapped around my neck in a constricting embrace.

"Holy shit," I said.

Will laughed, but before he even shut the door behind us, a woman swept in and took me bay the arms. She was small, an inch or two shorter than even me at five-foot-two, with a knot of gray curls, intelligent eyes, and a sharp, beaky nose. "Who is this?" she barked, peering at me. She looked so motherly, so wise and protective, that for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

That was how my mother used to be, before.

"This is Libre," he said. "Libre Bellerose. Remember, Mom?"

Her face brightened, transformed by a blinding smile. "Oh, Libre! Will's told me so much about you." To her credit, her eyes strayed down to my bulging stomach for only a moment before returning to my face.

"Mom," Will said, a hint of warning in his nervous laughter.

"Who's at the door?" A girl came around the corner into the cramped foyer. She looked to be maybe ten years old, a mess of carroty curls and orange freckles. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. "Will brought home a girl?"

"Annie," he said. "Please don't."

"Johnny, Freddie!" she hollered. "Will brought home a girl!"

An old man appeared, bespectacled, holding a crumpled newspaper. Beside his side, two identical twin boys – Johnny and Freddie – appeared, eyes wide. A little girl was trailing after them, her thumb in her mouth, a blanket clutched in her fist. "What's this about a girl?" the old man grunted.

"Dad," Will said, putting his head in his hands.

"Everybody away," his mother said, shooing everyone with a flick of her fingers. Despite her diminutive stature, everyone obeyed. "Johnny, Frankie, Annie, and you too, Brynn," she said, pointing to the little girl sucking her thumb. They all left the foyer, Will's father trailing after them.

"This was a mistake," Will said. "I see that now. In retrospect, I don't know how I didn't see it sooner."

"Oh, hush," his mother said. "I'll have none of that. Dinner's in half an hour, and I'm sure we've enough for Libre. I'll set another place at the table for her." She smiled brightly at me, reaching out and pinching my cheek. "I'm just so glad our Willie's finally brought home a girl. His brother Avery's out, but he brought home a lass ages ago. You can meet him some other time, I'm sure."

She left, her skirt fluttering behind her as she made her way back to the kitchen, already stating orders for her children, scolding them for crushing me in the cramped entryway.

"Your family's lovely," I said, with only a tinge of sarcasm.

Will groaned. "I thought all of this would make it better, but I'm starting to think I just made the situation a hell of a lot worse."

I kissed him on the cheek, enjoying his flush. Yes, it was hot and stuffy in his apartment, and the smell of cabbage was enough to knock me out. But it was also chaotic and lively, infused with action and vitality, a thousand different people buzzing around the kitchen. It was like my family used to be, and it felt so indescribably good to be in a place like that again.

"I love it," I said. "Honestly, Will. I'm so glad you've brought me here."

He smiled tentatively. "Yeah?"

I grinned. "Yeah." For a moment, I thought about leaning over, pressing a quick, hasty kiss on his lips, but I stopped myself short. That road would only lead to heartbreak. I cleared my throat, looking away. "So. How can I help?"

# # #

Despite my protests, Margaret – Will's mother, who had promptly insisted that I call her by her first name – wouldn't let me assist in making dinner. Instead, she plopped me down in a small chair in their tiny kitchen, and I watched as she stirred simmering pots, a maestro at the stove. She had a skill even my mother would have envied.

"I've been pregnant before," Margaret said, but when the words came out of her mouth, it sounded much different than when Aunt Lise had said, more or less, the same exact thing. Less exacting, more comforting, more sympathetic. "And I know how long Willie's on his feet all day. He's told me that you work even longer hours than he does." She shook her head. "I know what it is to be on my feet with your belly like a blimp. Enjoy the chair, my dear."

"I couldn't," I protested. "You've got to let me help with something."

Margaret scrutinized me. "You're a good sort," she said. "I'll tell you what. Next time you visit – because I have a good feeling there will be a next time – you can help me with the dishes. Sound fair?"

"How about," I said, "I do all of the dishes next time? To compensate, and all?"

She grinned. "I'm going to like having you around."

Will smiled at me across the table. "Famous last words."

I kicked him in the shins. "That's enough of that."

Margaret laughed, a big belly laugh. "Oh, you're my new favorite," she said.

"Someone's got to keep this one in line," I said, gesturing to him. "And anyway, I grew up with three older brothers. You learn things. Sort of a matter of survival."

"Hear that, Annie?" Margaret called to her daughter. "Libre here has three older brothers."

"Yeah, well I've got four," she said sourly, disappearing into her room. I giggled to myself, half-stunned that I still had the ability to giggle at all. I looked over at Will. I didn't know if I would ever be able to convey to him just how thankful I was that he had done this, brought me into his family. For the first time since June, I had a home again.

"So, dear," Margaret said, leaning against the linoleum countertop, a wooden spoon in her hand. The Callahans' kitchen was crowded, photographs spattering the striped, grease-spotted wallpaper, pots and pans dangling from the ceiling, off-white appliances, an oak dining table plopped in the middle of it all. Will's brothers and sisters flitted in and out while his father sat in an armchair in the corner reading his newspaper, oblivious to everything and everyone.

"Yes?" I said, leaning back in the chair, hands resting on my stomach.

"What's your story?" she said. "Will's told me bits and pieces, but I want to hear it from you."

I blinked. "Where do I start?" I muttered, speaking the words aloud inadvertently.

Margaret chuckled. "Well, where are you from?"

"Ohio," I said. "Middle of it. Right in-between Columbus and Cincinnati. I grew up on my father's farm."

"So you're a farm girl," she said. "What did you grow on your farm?"

"A bit of everything," I said. "Wheat and soybeans for cash crops, mostly, but my mother used to grow the most amazing garden. Her flowers were always winning awards, her fruits and vegetables, too. I never knew anyone that had a thumb green as _Maman_."

"Maman," Margaret said. "So you're French, then?"

"Mm-hm. Or my parents were, at least. My father fought World War II – his family escaped to Britain before the Germans took over – and my mother was a part of the Resistance."

She whistled low. "That's really quite impressive. I admire empowered women. I'd like to meet your mother someday."

My chest tightened, and I looked down at the table. "My mother passed away last summer."

The kitchen fell quiet momentarily, silent save for the simmering of the saucepans on the stove. "My own mother died when I was seventeen," Margaret said softly. "It is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy." I lifted my eyes, and she met mine. "I can't say I know much about you," she said. "Or that you know much about me. But I can say that you always have a home here. No matter what."

A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and fast. Without preamble, I stood from the chair and wrapped my arms around Will's mother. She stiffened momentarily but then patted me on the back. "Poor lass," she murmured. "Poor lass."

A minute or two later, I took a step back. It was funny – the awkward part wasn't beginning the hug, but ending it. I sat down in my chair. Will's hand slipped into mine, a silent show of support. I looked around the kitchen then, at his little siblings playing in the corner, at Margaret smiling sadly near the stove, at his father glancing at me steadily, nodding minutely.

My home did not exist anymore. It had been destroyed over the summer, crushed beyond hope of retrieval. Physically, the farmhouse in the heart of Ohio was still standing, my father still inhabiting the now-empty halls. But when Lovett went off to war, when Nicoline and my mother died, when I left, and Martel and Fitz followed in quick succession, my home had ceased to exist, piece by piece, bit by bit.

That home was gone. But I was beginning to realize, as I looked around the shabby Brooklyn apartment, that a person could have more than one home. My eyes met Will's. He had brought me here. I had shown him my fragile, broken heart, and he had done its best to fix it. His remedies had been steady but slow, achingly slow. But now, I could feel shards of my heart piecing each other together again.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He cracked a crooked smile. "You're welcome."

# # #

Later that night, after I'd gorged myself on soft potatoes that had melted in my mouth and good, salty boiled cabbage, Will took my hand and brought me back to the sitting room.

The rest of his family was still crowded around the table, exchanging jokes and tales, and we slipped past relatively unnoticed. The sitting room was a tiny shelf of a room, more a bedroom, really, as it was furnished with two twin beds. "Annie and Brynn sleep here," he explained. "Johnny, Frankie, Avery, and I share one of the other rooms, and Mom and Dad have the last."

"You share a room with three brothers?"

"It's not so bad. There are two bunk beds, so it's not that crammed. At least my room doesn't double as the sitting room." He led me over to an end table by a threadbare couch set in front of a boxy television. Set on the end table was a wooden nativity scene.

I sucked in a sharp breath, leaning in. It wasn't exactly like the one I'd had as a child – these figures were more beaten-up, their paint chipped away in places. One of the Wise Men was missing, and there were no sheep, just a donkey with one leg missing. There was no hay, just a scrap of cotton.

I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Oh, Will," I breathed.

"You like it?"

"No," I said. "I love it."

# # #

That night, when I got home late, I sat down at the table and wrote Martel back.

 _December 10, 1972_

 _Dear Martel,_

 _I'm wonderful here. I work hard at my job, but I'm alright. I made a friend at my job – his name is Will – and he's been a lifesaver. I just recently met his family, and they're a wonderful bunch. After everything happened last summer, I was having difficulty moving on, but I think I might just be able to start living again. I can't express to you in words how insanely good that feels._

 _The baby's fine – I've begun to really show, which is both exciting and agonizing at the same time. They haven't started kicking yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time._

 _While I'd love to come out and visit you and Jon – you met a guy! I'm pleased as punch – I'm thinking I'll stay here this Christmas. Margaret, Will's mother, invited me to join them for Christmas Mass. After the midnight Mass, their family gets together and has a feast in the early hours of the morning. I'm really looking forward to it._

 _I'd love to come out and visit in the spring, though. Maybe instead of going down to visit Aunt Jolie in Atlanta for Easter this year, I could come to Anacortes instead. It'll probably be much prettier in the spring, anyway, when things begin to bloom again. Let me know where you're staying, and I'll plan accordingly!_

 _I hope things are going as well for you in Washington as they're going for me here in New York City. The first few months here were a bit rough, but things are finally beginning to look up. I can hardly believe it._

 _With love,_

 _Libre_

 _P.S. – Give Jon my love._

# # #

Three days before Christmas, I gave the Callahan family their gifts.

I had dipped into my rusted metal box, pulled out a few wadded bills and tucked them into my pocket. I didn't have much money to spare, but what I did have I spent on presents: candy for my cousins, some plain old cash for Aunt Lise and Uncle Francis – it was all they wanted; they'd told me so themselves – a book on whales around Anacortes for Martel, and a miniature replica of the Empire State Building for my father. Fitz was MIA, and Lovett was in Vietnam, but I did have the Callahans.

Their gifts were a bit trickier. For Margaret, I had a copy of Jane Eyre, for Mr. Callahan a framed 1945 newspaper clipping, for Avery, whom I'd met at the Callahan apartment a week or so ago, a rare baseball card, for Annie, Brynn, Johnny, and Frankie, more candy from the nickel-and-dime store.

It was Will that was really difficult.

He had done so much for me, turned my sorry excuse for a life upside-down. He had saved me, and though he seemed to be oblivious, I wasn't. It seemed the least I could do was get him a nice Christmas present.

It required writing home to my father.

I met him at the diner, me at my typical spot wiping down countertops, Will drumming his fingers on the linoleum. He had taken to looking at me strangely lately. Or maybe it wasn't really strange at all, and I just needed a word to replace the truth, because I wasn't ready to acknowledge that just yet.

Wordlessly, I pulled out a small box wrapped in crinkled blue wrapping paper. Will's gaze flicked from the gift to my eyes. "What is this?" he said.

"Your Christmas present," I told him.

"My Christmas present? It's not Christmas yet," he said.

"I know, but I couldn't wait." I gestured to the box. "Open it."

"What if I wanted to wait?" Will teased. "So impatient."

I rolled my eyes heavenward. "Jesus almighty, Will, just open your present, alright?"

He shook his head with a rueful grin, pulling off the wrapping paper almost savagely. _Hypocrite,_ I thought darkly. He opened the box and peered inside. It took approximately thirty seconds for his expression to change.

"Libre," he said, looking up at me.

I walked around the counters. He took out his gift and set it on the counter. It was a photograph in a frame – or, rather, several photographs in a frame. There was one of me a year or two ago, wearing a sundress and a floppy hat. But over the top of that photograph, there were others, tucked into the corner of the frame, pressed behind glass. A picture of Will and me at the Callahan house, a picture of my family and me, a picture of me with the Callahans. A picture of me as a little girl, a picture of me resting my hands on my stomach, taken a week or two ago.

"That was me, before," I said, pointing to the original picture. God, I used to smile so often and so wide back then. I looked so young, and then realized I was. I was fifteen in that photograph, only sixteen now. My birthday was in February. I sometimes forgot that I was still a teenager, that if I hadn't gotten pregnant and found Ares, I would still be back in Ohio, probably wearing some meathead's letterhead jacket and calling him 'babe'. "I used to go by Lili, not Libre."

"Your hair is long," he said softly, glancing back up at me again.

I fingered my choppy locks. They'd evened out, at least, and hung around my collarbone. "A few days before I came to New York, I cut my hair with a pair of plastic scissors," I said.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I didn't want to be Lili anymore," I said. "I didn't want to be that girl. I wanted to be someone new. I was starting a new life in New York." I hesitated. "Honestly, I was broken. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, only that it felt right."

Will looked unspeakably sad. "And are you still?"

"Am I still what?" I asked.

"Are you still broken?"

I blinked. "No," I said. "Well, yes and no. My heart is still broken – my mother and sister died last summer."

"And _him_ ," Will said, sounding uncharacteristically bitter.

I raised my eyebrows. "Who?"

" _Him_." He gestured to my stomach, and it took me a moment to realize what he meant.

Oh. Ares.

I shook my head. "I wish I could say Ares broke my heart." I scoffed. "I didn't love him. He took advantage of me. He was a drug of sorts, to help me get away from the world. If that makes any sense. I don't know."

"You mean you never loved him?" Will said. I saw something strange in his eyes – something almost like hope.

"Never," I said. "That, I can say without question."

Will paused. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

"Sure. Lovett, Nicoline, my mother, my father, Martel, Fitz, my grandmother-"

"No, I mean outside of your family. Someone else." I met his eyes, and that was when I understood. His soft gray irises made me understand.

"Will," I said. "Please don't do this. Not now."

He slumped in his seat, letting out a rueful chuckle. "Serves me right for asking. I should've known better."

I stared at him. "Will, I didn't answer the question, alright?"

"Did you need to? That was an answer in it of itself."

"No, it wasn't," I snapped, suddenly angry. "Will, can you just look at me for a second?" He turned his head, looking sullen and hurt. "Look at me. Do you recall the last romantic relationship I was involved in? The one where a guy used me as his sex toy when I was drowning in grief for my mother and sister?" Will opened his mouth to protest, but I beat him to it. "I'm pregnant, Will. Come May, I'll have a kid. I'm getting fatter and uglier by the day. By late April, I probably won't be able to work anymore, and I'll have to hope whatever I saved up is enough. I'm not ready to go down that path again, alright? I'm not saying I never will. I'm saying not right now. I'm not answering the question. There are no subtle answers, alright?"

He had the sense to look ashamed. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head, sighing. "Me, too. I just – do you understand? You're my friend, Will." Tears sprung to my eyes. "I can't lose you."

Will stood up, wrapping his arms around me. "I know," he said. "I can't lose you, either."

I exhaled, breathing in his scent. Mint.

# # #

To this day, I have a tiny mint plant on my bedside table. Every night, before I go to sleep, I pluck a leaf off the plant and rub it between my fingertips, so I can be surrounded by his smell.

# # #

"I love you as a friend," I said.

Will pulled back. He studied my face. "Is that it?"

"That's it for now," I said. "Maybe not forever."

He nodded. "Alright." He sat back down in his chair, and I stood, feeling cold. Some part of me knew that if I'd told him the truth – the one I hadn't told – he wouldn't have let me go, and I wouldn't feel this chill of regret. "That'll do." He scrutinized me. "For now."

I swallowed. "Did you like your gift, at least?"

Will's face broke into a genuine smile. "No," he replied. "I love it."

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	15. Chapter 5: January

**A/N: I'm back!**

 **Note #1: Thanks, as always, go to Rosestream. You rock!**

 **Note #2: More thanks go to reviewers. Thank you guys so so so much. **

**Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own. Feeling monosyllabic today.**

* * *

Chapter Five

 _January_

I went over to the Callahans' for New Year's. Their apartment had become a refuge I had been seeking more and more frequently, and when they invited me to their New Year's party, I didn't hesitate to say yes.

Before I left, I looked into the mirror. Once upon a time, for a New Year's party, I would've pulled out a knockout dress, a slinky black thing or bright red movie-star-esque costume, something that would've made Will's jaw hit the floor. Instead, I got out an oversized sweater and paired it with loose jeans. To compensate, I curled my hair and stole a bit of Aunt Lise's makeup, but the effect was somewhat anticlimactic. A year ago, I would've been a ten out of ten. Now, I was just the pregnant sixteen-year-old at a New Year's shindig.

When I arrived at the Callahans', Will wasn't there. Avery was, though. He was my age, a boy with long lashes and kissable lips. He was leading a girl back into the room he shared with his brothers, a mischievous glint in his eyes. I watched them with plain envy. That could have been me, but my childhood was cut painfully short.

I thought of Ares then. He had been so charming, devilishly attractive, a rebel. A good kisser, too, if I remembered correctly. It was too bad that he had been such an asshole.

"Hey, stranger," Will said, appearing by my side.

I turned to him, a smile splitting my face, delighted to see him. "Hey, yourself," I said. He was more formal than usual, with a button-down shirt, clean, pressed jeans, and a pair of loafers. _Ares isn't the only one who's devilishly handsome_ , I thought. But his tie was crooked; knotted completely wrong. "Oh, no."

"What?" He glanced down. "Do I have something on my shirt?"

"No, your tie is just a…" I sighed. "Here." I reached up, unknotting his tie and smoothing it. Will's breaths grew shallow, and my hands shook a bit. God, he really was handsome in his button-down shirt. His eyes looked unnaturally bright. I knotted his tie, smoothing his shirt. My hands lingered on his chest before dropping down to my sides.

"Thanks," he said hoarsely.

I smiled. "Anytime."

Will stared at me for a moment. "You look… you look really nice."

I laughed. "I look pregnant," I said. "Which I am. But thank you all the same." I grinned. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"High praise," he said.

"The highest," I smiled, impulsively reaching up to peck him on the cheek. His face flamed, and I was struck by the want to kiss him again, this time squarely on the lips. I turned away abruptly. "So," I said. "What're the plans for tonight?"

# # #

Later that night, we were sitting on the couch, Will and I hip-to-hip as we watched the ball slowly sink down on television. We were surrounded by people, young children, and adults, teenagers and old women. I snuggled in closer to Will, and his arm wrapped around my waist.

 _"Fifty-five!"_ everyone shouted, counting down the seconds until the ball dropped.

"You know," Will whispered in my ear, "people usually celebrate the new year with a kiss at midnight."

I fought a smile. "Do they, now?"

"They do."

 _"Thirty-eight!"_

"So I was thinking," Will said, "we might do the same. You know, the two of us, one completely platonic kiss. For good luck."

"For good luck," I said skeptically. "Platonic."

 _"Twenty-two!"_

"Completely so," he said. "Needn't be more than a peck, really."

I studied him. "Will-"

 _"Fifteen!"_

"For good luck," he said, whispered, really, and I had to read his lips to understand.

 _"Ten, nine, eight…"_

"For good luck," I repeated.

 _"Five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year's!"_

Then, before I could think twice, I leaned in and kissed him.

It was a slow kiss, sweet and lingering. He cupped my cheek and I let out a soft sigh. His grip tightened on my waist, and he prodded with his tongue, deepening the kiss into something more. It was most certainly not a peck, most certainly not of the platonic nature, and it most certainly almost made my head explode.

We pulled back, panting, breaths ragged. "Holy shit," Will said. His eyes were hazy.

"You know," I murmured, "if one kiss is good luck, then wouldn't two kisses be double the good luck?"

His eyes popped open. "I think we'd better test it out to be sure."

"I think so, too."

He kissed me again, and though some part of my brain was screaming that I would regret this in the morning when I woke up and I had destroyed a friendship and started a relationship I had no intention of entering, I couldn't pull back. His lips were mesmerizing.

Several kisses later, my baby bump touched his chest. And that was when it came rushing back to me – I was sixteen, pregnant, fat, and ugly. I was serving a punishment for my actions, and I had to live with it. I was breaking every single one of my rules.

I jerked back. "Libre?" Will said. "What's the matter?"

I stood up quickly, grabbing my bag. "I-" I looked around. Everyone was eating or drinking or laughing or kissing. There was no place for me here. I was a broken girl. This place was on the whole, not the shattered. "I have to go," I mumbled, ducking my head down.

Will sat up straight, looking panicked. "No, wait, Libre-"

But I was already gone, out of the door. I hailed a cab, figuring it was worth the cost if it got me out of there and home as soon as possible.

When I got home, Aunt Lise was staying up, sitting at the kitchen table. She glanced up and saw me, her mouth tightening. But just as quickly as I'd seen indignation, I saw pity. Her features softened, her mouth tightening not with anger but with regret and empathy.

"Aunt Lise," I said, my voice trembling.

She stood from her seat, walking across the floor. Before I could even say a word, she enveloped me in a hug. I let out a choked sob, wrapping my arms around her and clinging on for dear life. "I-I've r-ruined ev-everything!" I sobbed.

"I know," she said, sighing and smoothing my hair. "I know."

# # #

I called in sick to work the next day. I couldn't face Will, not now. Maybe not ever. I had ruined our friendship, blasted it to smithereens, and now I would have to live with the consequences. The one friend I had was gone.

While wrapped in blankets, lying on the couch in the living room, I felt something in my belly. Almost a flutter, a whisper of a movement. A kick. I glanced down at my stomach in puzzlement, pressing my hand to the skin. My baby was kicking. My eyes teared up. "Aunt Lise!" I cried.

She came running to the couch. "What? What is it?"

"It kicked," I said, torn between wonder and sobbing.

She sighed, smiling gently. Without another word, she came over to the couch and held me while I cried over my baby's first, feeble kick.

# # #

That afternoon, I was lying on the couch, paging through an atlas and listening to a scratchy Beatles album on the record player, when there came a knock at the door. More of a banging, really, an insistent let-me-in kind of noise. Bemused, I put the atlas down, folding my page, and walked to the door, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

I didn't know who I expected – Aunt Lise, or maybe a drunken Uncle Francis. Some part of me wished it was Will with a bouquet of silky red roses. But out of all my guesses and suppositions, I never once thought my father would be the one standing before the door.

He had grown lean and thin, gaunt cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His coveralls fell loosely off his sagging shoulders, his head was completely bald, gleaming in the low overhead light. His chin was covered in scruff, his work boots still caked with mud. "Papa?" I whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

He gave me a weak smile. "Libre."

I flung my arms around his neck, and he hugged me back tightly as if he would never let go. It was strange. When I thought of the ones I missed, Nicoline and my mother were foremost in my thoughts, but I had missed my father, too, and he was still here. I'd neglected him. Selfish, I thought. "Oh, Papa," I said, pulling back. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Me, too." He glanced down at my stomach. "Is… How is everything?"

I forced a grin. "It's fine. Well as can be expected, I guess."

He poked his head into the door. "Is that the Beatles? Dear Prudence?"

This time, the smile was genuine. "What else?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "Shoulda known. You and that damn song. Used to play it over and over again."

I shrugged and studied him closer. "Not that I'm not glad that you're here and everything, but… Why are you here?"

He let out a long, slow breath. "I sold the farm."

I blinked. "You – you what?"

"I sold the farm." He looked dejected. "I was gonna save it for Lovett, but… I can't do it anymore. I can't just keep going. Not when the house is empty, not with only me around." His mouth drooped like an upside-down parenthesis. "Not when they're gone."

"I get it," I said softly. He met my eyes, and I saw a vulnerability in his irises, a silent plead. "C'mon," I said. "I'll make you some tea."

He followed me into the apartment, shutting the door with a click behind him. I went to the small kitchen, pulling out a teakettle and a few cardboard boxes of tea bags. "Herbal, green, or black?" I asked.

"Black, I think."

I filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Turning around, leaning on the countertops, I assessed him from head-to-toe. "So," I said. "What are you going to do now that you've sold the farm? I know Martel went to Seattle, and Fitz is traversing the globe, and of course I know where Lovett is , but what about you? And what about Grandmother, for that matter?"

He took a seat at the kitchen table. "Your grandmother and I are going back to France."

I almost choked on my own spit. "France?"

He nodded. "It's where I grew up. Her, too. It just… We're nearing the end of our years, my mother and I. I'd like to spend the last few in my homeland. I love America, but-"

"It won't ever be the same," I finished, midway through my realization. I understood. It was the same way I felt about Ohio and New York. "I get it. I really do."

My father looked a little sad. "It's not something I would ever want you to understand."

"It's not something I would wish on anyone," I said. The teakettle began to whistle, and I walked over to the cabinet, pulling out two chipped mugs. "But that's the thing about life, isn't it? Too full of the things you never wanted to know and too empty of the things you do."

He paused. "Why do you say that?"

"Life sucks," I said with a shrug.

"Not always." He looked at me, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Just because bad things happen don't always necessarily mean that life is bad."

"Oh, right," I said.

"No, I'm serious," my father told me, suddenly angry. "Amorette – your mother and I – had many wonderful years in our marriage. For the years that Nicoline-" His voice broke. "For the years that your sister was with us, she was wonderful. Maybe a bit misguided at times, but still wonderful."

"But now they're gone!" I cried, something snapping inside of me. "What's the point of loving someone if they'll only be taken away?"

My father looked me dead in the eye. "Would you rather never have known them at all?" His mouth was pressed into a tight line of quiet fury. "Would you rather have gone through life without loving?"

"Yes," I said, emphatically. I felt my eyes tear up. "I miss them every day, Papa. There isn't a day that goes by when they're not with me. They destroyed me. Their deaths made me do things I would never do otherwise."

His eyes lit up with understanding. "So this is what this is about? Do you blame them for your own mistake? For the child that is coming?"

"No!" I said, but even as the words passed my lips, I knew they weren't wholly true. And that was what got me. I hadn't even realized the truth until I lied.

My father shook his head. "Turn off that infernal whistling on the stove, Libre, and sit down."

I did as he asked. I turned the dial and took a seat at the kitchen table, lower lip quivering.

"Everyone makes mistakes in life," he said. "I have made them, your brothers have made them, your grandmother has made them. When Nicoline entrenched herself in the world of drugs, she made a mistake. When Amorette – your mother – committed suicide, she made a mistake. And when you decided to use that boy, you made a mistake, too.

"You have said – not to me, but to your brothers, who relayed the words to me – that this boy used you. That he took advantage." His steely-eyed gaze met mine. "Perhaps this is true. But isn't it also true that you took advantage of him? Fitz told me you said you never loved him. You used him, just as he used you. While this boy was wrong – so wrong that I would kill him gladly with my own bare hands if I got the chance – you must take responsibility.

"Your problem, Libre," he continued, "is that you have an inability to take responsibility for your own actions. I have been talking to both of your brothers, and they confirm my fears. Your head tells you that your pregnancy is not your fault, that it is the fault of Amorette, Nicoline, and the boy, and while they have all taken a role, you are guilty, too. Your head tells you that you are innocent, but your heart knows better. You punish yourself constantly for what you feel in your heart, but your penance is never-ending because you have not yet realized what your sentence is being served for." He shook his head. "It is not in love that lies the trouble, Libre, but in your own heart."

I swallowed. "I-"

"Don't say anything yet." My father got up from the table and poured the water from the kettle into the cups, opening a few cabinets until he found a carton of black tea bags. He brought two out and plunked them in each cup, carrying them back to the table. "Perhaps you are not ready to be shown your own mistakes. But they are yours, and the sooner you realize that, the better."

"Okay," I whispered.

He placed the tea in front of me. "Drink, Libre," he said. "As soon as we are finished, I'll be going. My plane leaves for France tonight."

# # #

I never saw him again.

# # #

The next day, I went back to work. Will had chipped away at the stone walls around my heart, and I needed to build them up again. I needed to make them impervious.

I needed to talk to Will, because though I was ninety percent sure I'd wrecked our friendship beyond fixing, I had to try. It was the other ten percent that got me out of bed that morning, that got me into my uniform (now with a larger, billowy top), made me brush my hair, temporarily ironed out the wrinkles in my soul and rebuilt the walls around my heart.

When I got to the diner, I plastered on a chipper face. My manager gave me a dour look. "Back, are you?" he said dourly. "Enjoying yourself a little too much on New Year's?"

"I haven't missed a day yet," I told him, a hint of steel in my voice. "And I've worked overtime. I think that's enough, yes?"

He just frowned at me. "Watch your tongue, or you're fired."

"Yes, sir," I replied. He didn't catch the sarcasm, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. "Is Will in today?"

"Who?" he said disinterestedly.

"Will," I repeated. "William Callahan. Been working here for quite some time."

And then I spotted him. He was sitting in a chair near the counter, his back stiff. He turned toward me slowly. "Yes," Will said, looking right at me. My heart leaped into my throat. Stay put, I warned it firmly, erecting the stone walls yet again, fortifying them. God knew if they would be enough. "I'm here."

"Please try not to have sex on the countertops," my manager muttered as I walked past.

I gulped, walking over to the chair beside Will. My eyes flitted to the analog clock on the wall. I still had a good fifteen minutes before my shift – our shift – officially started. It would have to do. "Can I sit here?" I said.

He shrugged, turning away as if it was of little consequence to him. "Sure. I don't own this place."

Oh. So this was the Will in front of me today. Not quite Will, and yet Will all the same.

I took a seat, placing my bag in my lap. "I'm sorry," I blurted out, unable to stand it any longer. I inhaled. "Shit. I had this whole speech planned out, all about how I was going to fix this, what steps we were going to take-"

Will turned toward me. His face was like thunder. "Are you kidding me?" he said. "Are you fucking kidding me, Libre?"

"No?" I asked, feeling small, like a bug. Easily crushed.

"Do you really think this is something that can be fixed?" He scoffed. "Have you been living in some sort of make-believe world the past few months?"

"What?" I whispered.

He shook his head. "This isn't something that can be put to rights with some little magic wand, Libre," he said. "This isn't something that you reverse."

"Why not?" The words came out tiny, pathetic, and I hated myself for saying them.

"Because I'm so fucking in love with you that I can't see straight, that's why."

I couldn't breathe. Honest to God and truly, that was how it felt. Like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs, taken away savagely, all the oxygen had left the room. The sun had been blotted from the sky, the world had folded in on itself, become smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a star in the night sky, a tiny pinprick that didn't get any bigger as you got closer. Unreachable. Unthinkable.

He smiled bitterly. "So I'm guessing that's a surprise, then? You've just been so fucking oblivious that you couldn't see what was right in front of your eyes?"

I couldn't answer, on account of the lack of air in my lungs.

"I'm in love with you, Libre Bellerose," he said. "And I'm not going to do it anymore. I'm not going to be your friend, pretend like everything's all fine and dandy because you can't handle me feeling the way I do about you. Because I do, Libre. I love you so much that I can't look at you and think at the same time. Every time you smile, every time you decide to laugh at some pathetic joke I've made, it's like you're the sun. I swear it.

"But here's the thing," he said. "I'm thinking I'm the only one that feels this way. And even though I said it was a platonic kiss, even though I said it meant nothing, I was lying. It meant everything." His gaze was hard, searing. I'd never seen Will like this. Not once. "You seem to think you're unlovable, like just because you made a mistake – admittedly a colossal one – you aren't allowed to love anymore. Like just because you're pregnant you think that I'm not capable of loving you.

"Well, I hate to break it to you, Libre, but I don't give a fuck. I want you. I want to be your boyfriend. I want to meet your kid, want to teach them to play ball if they're a boy or beat the shit out of their boyfriends if I'm a girl. Or if they're gay. Whatever, you get my point. I want to hold you and kiss you a thousand times over, just like we did on New Year's. I want to be with you and love you and God knows what else, because if I told you everything that I want from you, everything I've been feeling since you waltzed into my life last September, you would never look at me again.

"So," he said, looking down at his hands. "If you feel the same way, then tell me. Tell me, and we'll run off into the sunset together, or whatever the fuck people do when, by some off-chance, they love each other. But if you don't – if I'm just stupid, if you haven't noticed how I feel about you, or don't want to notice – then please, for God's sake, let me off the end of your pathetic little string. Let me free. Because I'm not going to wait around forever and let you break my heart."

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, I love you back."

Or I would have if I was able to breathe. But I just sat there, silent, unable to get the words out, unable to say anything at all. The silence stretched on, long and interminable, and I watched him slip away from me, piece by piece.

"Yeah," he said, smiling to himself acridly. "That's what I thought."

And then he got up, slapping a dollar bill on the counter, walking out of the diner before his work had even begun.

Not a moment after he'd left, I heard my manager pass by. "Come on, Bellerose," he said. "Your shift is starting. Get to work."

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	16. Chapter 6: February

**A/N: I'm back! Here's the final chapter of Part IV, Autumn-Winter. Hope you all like it!**

 **Note #1: More thanks to Rosestream! Hurrah!**

 **Note #2: Thanks so much to all reviewers. I'd hug you if a), we weren't separated by the internet, and b), I didn't have a thing about personal space.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

Chapter Six

 _February_

When Will was around, my world was lit up in color. There were vibrant greens and brilliant blues, yellows so bright they seemed to war with the sun, purple mountain majesties, pinks so lovely and delicate I could physically _feel_ them, like crushed rose petals beneath my fingertips. When he left, my world became shades of gray, midnight blacks, and virgin whites.

The day Will left, I came home to an empty apartment. A note in Aunt Lise's handwriting was on the counter. _Dear Libre,_ she wrote. _Went to the zoo with the kids. Be back later._

I went over to the record player, put on _Dear Prudence,_ stared at my ceiling, and cried. Not loud tears, not ones of anguish, but ones of honesty. Quiet, still. Muted enough that the Puerto Ricans next door wouldn't have known anyone was home, even with the paper-thin walls.

That night, I dreamt I was back at the farm, in the barn full of sweet-smelling hay, petting Wilma the barn cat. Ares and Will stood in front of me, each of them drastically different, their dissimilarities highlighted when they stood side-by-side.

"You used me," said Ares.

"You broke my heart," said Will.

I woke up in a cold sweat, panting, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat.

# # #

A few weeks after Will and I split up, I went to the Museum of Natural History on my birthday, to revel in the day I turned seventeen. It seemed like ages since I'd last seen him—he'd changed his shift times, or maybe quit altogether. My pride stung too much to ask.

I went straight to the oceans exhibit, dragging my feet over the floors in a spectacular display of moroseness, my fingers splayed over my bulging stomach. Nothing enticed or excited me anymore. When I saw the dioramas, teak walls lit up in a low glow, all I thought about was Will, that day in November when he tugged my hand and brought me inside, the taste of my first New York City hot dog still lingering on my tongue.

We had never really been friends, Will and I. Somewhere inside, I knew that. We had gone on dates, not platonic outings. When I remembered the first taxi ride to the Callahans' apartment, my cheeks flushed vermilion. I'd placed my head on his shoulder, let him rub my arms to work the warmth back into my skin. That wasn't the act of a friend, and I knew it.

How did I manage to screw things up so spectacularly?

Once I got to the exhibit, I bypassed everyone, putting the world on mute. The silence inside my head was deafening. My footfalls sounded like I was walking on snow, a soft _crunch, crunch_ in a world of white and quiet.

I went to the middle of the floor in the oceans exhibit, just below the whale. There, surrounded by people milling about, talking in hushed conversations, in a cloud of perfume, cologne, sweat, and the stench of stale cigarettes, I sat down on the floor. I placed my head on the floor tiles, folded my hands over my stomach, and stared up at the ceiling.

The blue whale was enormous as ever, a great blue-and-gray monstrosity. I wondered how so big a thing could be suspended from the ceiling, hanging over everyone, and then wondered why life couldn't do the same for me. There was hardly anything keeping me afloat anymore. Will had been my clear wires, and I'd snipped them with a pair of blunt scissors, worn away at the strands until there was nothing left. I'd made myself fall.

I stayed there, lying on the floor in the middle of the Museum of Natural History, until a security guard came and politely asked me to leave.

# # #

Valentine's Day fell on a Wednesday that year. A server at the diner got sent a heart-shaped box of chocolates, another a helium-filled balloon that crinkled beneath her fingertips, yet another a plush teddy-bear with blank black eyes.

These were things I learned later. I stayed home from work that day.

I wrapped myself in blankets and curled up on the couch. More than ever, I missed my mother. She would have sat next to me and held me in her lap, would have kissed the top of my head and sighed, holding my trembling shoulders. She would have gone out to a McDonald's and gotten fast food, a greasy hamburger and a milkshake big enough to fill Lake Superior, an enormous bag of fries dripping with frying oil. We would have gorged ourselves on bad food, watching whatever was on the television until our brains felt like mush.

She'd done it before, when Freddie O'Ryan broke my heart. She'd sat there with me, piles of junk food on my bed as I cried. She handed me tissues patiently, brushed my lank hair and made me take a shower. "There is a line," she had said imperiously, "between self-pity and degradation. If you are going to drown in self-pity, at least have good hygiene."

I cried alone that day, for Will and for all of the other things I had lost. My mother would never meet her grandchild. My sister would never meet her niece or nephew. They would never know them, not in this life, anyway.

Throughout that day, I half-expected Will to knock on the door, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. Of course, that was silly—he didn't know where I lived, and anyway, if he wanted to, he could have come to see me at the diner. It wasn't as if he hadn't had ample opportunity.

There was nothing that day for me but tears. The sunrise might have been pink, but my heart felt shriveled and black.

# # #

I went to Central Park one Saturday late in February, sat in on a park bench and stared at the world. Winter in New York City was dreary, the whole world a mixture of grays and browns. There was no greenery, no waxy leaves fluttering from the trees, no sprouts of emerald grass, no patches of Queen Anne's lace clustered by the oak trees. I shivered, sitting on that park bench, weeping tears of ice.

A man passed by in a jogging suit. He had a strange bracelet around his wrist, like two snakes braided together. "Are you alright?" he asked. He had salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes, a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder. I thought I saw an envelope poking out of his bag.

"No," I said, unable to muster up anything but the truth.

The man frowned. "Wait for just a second," he said. "Your name is Libre Bellerose, right?"

I froze. "Why?" I asked.

He put up a finger as if to say just a minute. "Hold on," he said, opening his bag. He dug inside, finally retrieving a slightly crumpled envelope. "Take this. It should help."

I took the envelope cautiously. It was a letter to me, addressed in Martel's scribbly handwriting. My head snapped up, a question already posed on my lips, but the jogger was gone. A shiver traveled down my spine, colder even than the February wind. Another element of the supernatural. They came around just often enough to reassure me that the world was not what it seemed, much as I might want to forget.

I doubted I could ever wholly forget Ares's eyes.

With trembling fingers, I ripped open the envelope and withdrew a sheet of wrinkled loose-leaf paper. It was coated in pencil smudges.

 _Dear Libre,_

 _I'm so glad to hear that you're doing well, ditto for the baby. I hope to visit you when they're born—should be about May, right? I haven't been to New York in ages, and I fully expect a gold-lettered invitation._

 _Anyway, things are good here. I've officially moved out to Friday Harbor, an island little ways away from Anacortes, and bought a bed-and-breakfast with some money the bank loaned me. It's a small start, but hopefully, one day I'll get to open up my own inn._

 _Jon and I are seeing each other officially. You were right; Washington really is more liberal than Ohio. (Not that this should be much of a surprise.) And it even has orca whales! I've never seen one, but Jon promises to take me out one time. He's not even impressed by them anymore, as he's been living around here all his life._

 _I can't wait for you to come and visit; you'll love it. You're welcome anytime, though of course I would've loved to see you for Christmas. I'm so glad you and this Will person are friends now (or even more than friends. It might be good for you, you know). It makes me feel better about you being so far away. It's never good to be alone._

 _Sorry, the letter is short this time; Jon is getting impatient. We're supposed to be going on a date soon._

 _With love,_

 _Martel_

 _P.S.—Got any baby names yet?_

My lower lip wobbled. I didn't know what the jogger in the bright purple jumpsuit was talking about. Help me? That letter had only made things worse. Martel thought I was doing well out here in New York, perfectly fine. Well, even. And up until that stupid New Years' party, I had been.

I thought 1972 was bad, but the way things were going, 1973 wasn't going to be much better.

I stared at the paper, something resonating with me. _You're welcome anytime._ Did he really mean that? Fitz had shown up unannounced, same with my father. New York was starting to wear at me, chip away bits and pieces of my self-worth. There was nothing left for me now, not that Will had gone.

Friday Harbor.

I stood up from the park bench, mind whirling. I nearly ran out of the park, onto the subway, all the way back to Aunt Lise's apartment. I ripped down my old dog-eared atlas from the shelves and paged through the maps of Washington. A bit north of Seattle, I found what I was looking for. Anacortes was a city on the mainland—more of a touristy town, I suspected—and Friday Harbor was a little ways away. A ferry must take you out to the island.

Aunt Lise and her children came through the door then, a mess of buzzing and chattering. I glanced up at her, and she noticed me standing by the shelves, an atlas in hand. She detached her children from her legs and walked over to me, her lips twisted in dismay.

"I'm going to Friday Harbor," I told her.

To her credit, she just raised her eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"Martel lives there," I said. "It's a little town in Washington. He has a bed-and-breakfast there. I'm going to see if I can stay there for a little while, maybe help with things."

She studied me for a long moment. I thought she might vehemently oppose the idea, or simply ask if I had lost my mind, but she just said, "This is something you need to do." A statement, not a question. Like she just knew.

"Yes," I answered. I'd never sounded surer of anything.

"How are you going to get there?"

"A bus," I said, already formulating a plan. "I'll take a bus out to Washington, and then a ferry out to the island."

She looked at me, eyes narrowed, and then nodded, fishing a twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket. "Take this, for whatever you might need. Call us when you get there, to ensure that you are alright. Understand?"

My knees felt weak. "Yes," I said, almost delirious with happiness. "Yes, I understand."

"Take that, too," she said, gesturing to the atlas. "You will need it more than I do."

And that was it. An hour later, I was out the door, never to return, with nothing more than my suitcase with my lockbox stuffed safely inside, an atlas, and a wild sense of hope for the first time in what seemed like ages. I was leaving New York.

It had been good to me, New York City, better than I deserved. For a time, it was even incredible. But it was time for me to leave. The last fading dregs of February would kiss me goodbye, send me off with little more than my hopes and ambitions, my dreams wrapped up in a neat box.

 _Friday Harbor,_ I thought, _here I come._


	17. Part V, Spring: Chapter 1: March

**A/N: Okay, so I'm back. And late. I could go on and on with explanations, but I figure I'll just address a few issues: One, this story isn't over. It's still got quite a bit left, actually. While I won't say much on that front, I can tell you that both Will and Ares will be making reappearances. And while I've written the whole thing, I'm still in the process of proofreading. Two: I can't promise that the updating process can stabilize anytime soon, but I can try my best. Alright, onto my customary notes:**

 **#1: As always, this goes to my beta-reader, Rosestream. Thank you so much. I couldn't have gotten this far without you.**

 **#2: This one goes to reviewers. You guys make my heart soar. Thank you.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own shite, people. I'm a teenager.**

* * *

 **Part V**

 **Spring**

One

 _March_

Anacortes was a small town by the sea, an assortment of bed-and-breakfasts made of that light-brown wood indigenous to seaside villages. I stepped off the bus with a hat tilted over my head, sunlight spilling onto the rim, a suitcase in one hand and an atlas in the other, my stomach poking out over the waistband of my loose-fitting jeans.

The whole place smelled of the sea: ocean brine, fresh and rotting fish, sand, and salt spray. Salty beads of fog hugged the air on the morning I arrived, fresh-faced, a feeling of hope rooted deep in my heart. My days in New York were put far behind me, my days in Ohio even further. It was a time of new beginnings, and I was going to make the most of it.

Of course, in order to do that, I had to get directions to the ferry.

I swallowed, scraping up my meager courage, and walked over to a diner-esque restaurant. The buildings were all newer here than they had been in New York and Ohio, as if they had been built twenty years ago instead of eighty. I shoved the door open with a grunt, my suitcase stumbling on its way in. I wiped a hand across my forehead, chewing my lip. The restaurant was a small place, dark blue walls and chipped wooden tables. A girl sat by herself at a two-person table by the window, a book propped in front of her.

I went up to the hostess stand. "Hello," the hostess chirped. "Can I help you?"

"Um, yeah." I felt my cheeks flush. "I need to get to Friday Harbor. Is there some sort of ferry I can take, by any chance?"

The girl by the window's head snapped up. "You need to get to Friday Harbor?"

"Yeah." I shuffled my feet awkwardly. "Any way you could help with that?"

"Sure," she said easily. "I live there." She put a couple of faded dollar bills on the table, shoving aside her half-finished coffee and dog-earing the page in her book. "I was going to head over there in a little bit, but if you want, I can take you now."

I blinked. "That'd be… That'd be really great. Thanks."

"No problem," the girl said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. It was a battered leather satchel, outfitted with bronze zippers. A notebook peeked out over the top, and she stuffed it back into her bag. "I'm a native. I basically consider it my duty to show people around, the poor lost souls." She nodded to the hostess. "See you around, Melanie."

"Bye, babe," Melanie said, waving at us both.

The girl went to the door, pushing it open. "Well?" she said. "You coming, or not?"

I pointed to myself. "Me?"

"No, the disemboweled giraffe standing right behind you. Yeah, you. Now, are you coming, or are you perfectly content to stand there until your toes fall off?"

I frowned. "I'm coming." She held the door for me, and I stepped out into the morning air. It felt sweet and cool on my skin.

"You alright with walking?" the girl said. "It's kind of a long trip, but it should give me enough time to at least figure out if you're a serial killer or not."

I blinked. "You're not shy about saying what you think, are you?"

"Nope. I know who I am. You don't like it, you find your own way to the ferry." She squinted up at me. "I'm not a very nice person. You either roll with the sarcasm and biting wit, or you don't. But either way, I'll get you to Friday Harbor."

Despite everything, I smiled. At least she was honest. After dancing around for months with Will, the frankness was refreshing. "I guess I'll just have to learn to roll with it, then."

Surprise flickered in her eyes, and a slow grin crept across her face. "Glad we've got that settled." She stuck out her hand. "My name's Austen, by the way. That's A-U-S-T-E-N, too, like Jane Austen. Not like the hick town in Texas."

"Who's that?" I asked, pumping her hand. "Jane Austen, I mean."

Austen arched one eyebrow. "Only the most sarcastic writer of the nineteenth century," she said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I totally love the Brontë sisters—well, Charlotte and Emily, anyway. Anne was a little bland, to tell you the truth. But Jane Austen was fabulous. She wrote some of the most internationally-acclaimed works of all time. _Emma, Mansfield Park,_ _Northanger Abbey_ , _Persuasion_ , _Sense and Sensibility_ , _Pride and Prejudice_." At this last one, she held up her dog-eared book, and I saw that it was indeed _Pride and Prejudice_ by J. Austen. As she shook it, the pages fell open, and I saw that she had highlighted some passages, annotations scribbled in the margins. "I mean, she was a real intellectual, you know? A female suffragette almost a century before the movement began."

I blinked again. "You're… you're pretty smart, aren't you?"

Her cheeks pinked. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I get a bit carried away."

I shook my head. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Fourteen, going on fifteen this June," Austen said.

I took this opportunity to scrutinize her. Though she was younger than me, she was taller, at about five-foot-seven. She had honey-blonde hair that fell to her shoulders and a curvy figure; thick thighs and a round waist. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses were perched on the edge of her nose, murky eyes hiding behind the lenses. She was wearing a pair of ripped, mud-splattered shorts, a sweatshirt, and a pair of black Converse high-tops. The rubber soles and toes were covered with ink doodles. She clutched the book to her chest like a shield.

I liked her immediately.

"My name's Libre," I said.

She furrowed her brow. "Liberty in French?"

I blinked in surprise. "Uh – yeah. How did you know?"

She shrugged. "Root word. Probably some sort of Latin origin, though that's just a stab in the dark. And besides, it had a lilt reminiscent of the Romanic languages, and it certainly didn't sound Italian or Spanish."

"You've got a pretty high IQ, don't you?" I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.

"So they say." She resumed walking down the road, and I followed her, dragging my suitcase. She glanced at the bag. "Here, give me that."

"The suitcase?"

Austen rolled her eyes heavenward. "Don't worry, I'm not going to rifle through it to steal anything. You just look tired."

"Gee, thanks."

"C'mon, I'm trying to be nice. Enjoy it while it lasts." With some reluctance, I handed over the suitcase, and she pulled it behind her. "So. What brings you to the Island of Misfit Toys?"

"Where?"

She let out a long-suffering sky and rolled her eyes almost all the way back in her head. "The Island of Misfit Toys, my personal pet name for Friday Harbor. I've been born and raised here—never been much of anywhere else, much to my incessant lament—so I tend to be a little less-than-kind."

"I can see that." I shook my head. "Well, I'm coming here from New York."

Austen's eyes nearly popped out of her skull. "Really? New York City? What was it like?"

I had to stifle a laugh. "Well, smelly, really. Smelly and dirty."

"Oh, come on," she whined. "You've gotta give me something more than that."

"Well," I said. "I went to the Museum of Natural History, and it has this enormous blue whale hanging from the ceiling. Life-sized, I'm pretty sure."

"What, was it about ninety to a hundred feet?" Austen said.

"Um, I guess."

"Yeah. That sounds about right." She let out a wistful sigh. "Man, what I'd give to be able to go to New York. I mean, I've been to Seattle, and I've been to San Francisco and Portland, but _New York_."

"You want to get out of Friday Harbor?" I asked.

"Ugh, yes. All I've done my whole life is read about other places. I want to see the moors of Britain and Ireland, trod the land of the samurai, speak with aborigines in Australia, see Hagia Sophia in Istanbul and the Colosseum in Rome. And that's just to start." She looked at her feet. "It's why I'm so anxious about my grades, you know? College is my ticket out. If I get a 4.0, some kick-ass extra-curricular activities, good test scores, the whole shebang…" Austen trailed off. "Well, maybe I can get into NYU. You know?"

I stared at her. "Austen, how old did you say you were?"

"Fourteen."

I shook my head. "Jesus. You've got your shit together, don't you?"

"I have to. I mean, you probably grew up in New York, so-"

I laughed. "Not even close. I grew up in Ohio. On a farm, even."

Her face twisted. "God, I'm sorry."

Now I let out a real, genuine belly laugh. "It wasn't so bad. I really liked it for a while, actually."

"How old are you now?"

"Sixteen." I put my hand on my stomach. "My birthday is next month. April 23."

"Your birthstone is a diamond," Austen mused. "That's a nice one to have. You get a boyfriend, you can insist he get you a nice box from Tiffany's. You know a birthday gift with intrinsic meaning. My birthstone is a pearl. And, I mean, I know everyone says black pearls are rarer, but I'll always be in favor of those pearls that look a little pink."

I blinked. "Um… okay."

Again, her neck flushed. "Sorry. I'm not very good at talking. Or, you know. Socially interacting with other human beings. I'm good with cats, though. And fish. Although I guess they don't really say much. Not that cats do, but…" The tips of her ears glowed pink. "I'm going to shut up now."

I let out a fresh peal of laughter. "It's okay. Honestly, I was kind of expecting you to ask about all of…" I gestured at myself, at my stomach in particular. "You know, this. The whole sixteen-and-pregnant thing."

"I may be rude, but I'm not _that_ rude." She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I figure your life is your business. Sure, I'll comment on your lack of knowledge regarding historically quintessential authors, but your life is yours, you know? My guidelines might be backward, but they're there."

"Thanks," I said, smiling.

"Don't get sappy on me now, Libre." Austen put a hand over her brow, shading her eyes. "It should be about another five minutes before we get there. You think you can handle it?"

I took a deep breath. "One way to find out."

###

We made it in the end, though I was panting, sweating, and exhausted by the time I reached the ferry. Exhaustion seeped from my pores along with the gallon or so of perspiration.

Austen glanced sideways at me warily. "You alright there?"

"I'll be fine." I waved a hand. "I just – need – a minute. Or seven."

"Jesus, don't die on me," she said, alarmed. "Last thing I need is for you to drop dead."

I glared at her. "I'm not gonna drop dead, okay? Trust me on that." I swiped a hand across my forehead, glancing up at the massive ship before us. It was moored in the sapphire waters, waves lapping gently at the hull. In the distance, I could see great expanses of emerald conifer trees rising from the cliffs, an eagle circling overhead. "God, it's beautiful here."

"I've always thought so," Austen said. "Dry as cardboard, sure, but beautiful." She turned to me, cocked her head. "How are you with boats?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. Never been on one."

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Never?"

I rolled my eyes. "I grew up in Ohio, Austen. I mean, if you count a canoe as a boat, then I guess I've paddled a couple in my lifetime, but that's about it. A couple lakes, a couple rivers, more creeks than you know what to do with. That's Ohio for you."

"Sorry," she muttered. "It's just, growing up here my whole life…" She trailed off. "Well, you get the picture, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I get the picture." I shaded my eyes. "Should we be getting on the ferry now?"

"Probably. You ready to walk a little more?"

I dug my heels into the gravel, balanced my hand on my stomach. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

We walked toward the ticket booth in silence. After a moment, Austen asked, "So you said you're from Ohio?"

"Mm-hm. Grew up on a farm."

She paused. "Do you, by any chance, know Martel Bellerose?"

I stopped, blinking in surprise. "He's my brother."

"I thought so. My brother's Jon Davis, your brother's boyfriend." She paled, looking a little panicked. "Oh, wait, you knew about that, right? Because I know that not everybody is as accepting as some, and I didn't want to shock you or anything—"

I laughed. "Nah, I've known Martel leaned the other way for years."

"Thank God," she said, sagging in relief. "Your brother's an ace guy. Real nice, and good to Jon, too." She scrutinized me. "He's said a little about his family. Not much, though."

"Really?" I kept my eyes trained forward. "He said anything about me?"

"Just a little. That you were pregnant, in New York, trying to work things out. Which I thought was pretty admirable, all things considered." Austen grinned. "I don't know. I said I would let you keep your secrets to yourself, but I have a feeling you've got a helluva story locked up inside."

"You have no idea," I said weakly.

"But even with everything," Austen said, "you should know that I envy you."

If it hadn't been so pathetic, I would have laughed. "Envy me?"

We reached the ticket line, and she turned to me, her gaze hard. "Sure. I mean, God, whatever else happens, you've lived, you know? You've seen New York, you've seen the coast, you've had sex and probably smoked some, too. You've taken risks. Lived. I just… I envy that. I'm so scared sometimes that I'll screw things up, that I'll mess up my chance of getting out of here, that I don't let myself do anything. I've never so much as picked up a cigarette, or, I don't know, done pot."

"Well, you don't do pot," I corrected. "You smoke it. But I get your point." I smiled sadly. "If it's any consolation, I envy you. The grass is always greener."

 _"'Inventory: Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe. Four be the things I'd been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne. Three be the things I shall have till I die: Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.'"_

I stared at her. "What was that?"

"A poem by Dorothy Parker," Austen answered.

"Do you just keep poems around in your mental Rolodex, ready to whip out at any moment?" I demanded.

" _'Spontaneity is a meticulously prepared art.'_ That one's Oscar Wilde, but it's just a quote."

I shook my head. "Jesus. You have a favorite quote, or do you just know too many quotes to pick one?"

"I have a few favorites," said Austen. "One day, I'd like to be the quoted, not the quoter."

"Well, what's one of your favorites, then?"

She thought about it for a minute. _"'And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will fall in love with night and pay no mind to the garish sun.' Romeo and Juliet,_ William Shakespeare."

My lips parted. "Another."

 _"'Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.' Anna Karenina,_ Leo Tolstoy."

"Another."

" _'I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.' Pride and Prejudice,_ Jane Austen."

"Another."

 _"'No, my dear, I'm not in love with you, no more than you are with me, and if I were, you would be the last person I'd ever tell. God help the man who ever really loves you. You'd break his heart, my darling, cruel, destructive little cat who is so careless and confident she doesn't even trouble to sheathe her claws.'"_

I stopped in my tracks. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Because I remembered.

 _But if you don't – if I'm just stupid, if you haven't noticed how I feel about you, or don't want to notice – then please, for God's sake, let me off the end of your pathetic little string. Let me free. Because I'm not going to wait around forever and let you break my heart._

"What's that one from?" I croaked hoarsely.

 _"Gone With the Wind,"_ she said. "Margaret Mitchell."

"Do you have any more ones from _Gone With the Wind?_ "

She shrugged. _"'Forgive me for startling you with the impetuosity of my sentiments, my dear Scarlett – I mean, my dear Mrs. Kennedy. It cannot have escaped your notice that for some time past the friendship I have had in my heart for you has ripened into a deeper feeling, a feeling more beautiful, more pure, more sacred. Dare I name it to you? Ah! It is love which makes me bold!'"_

I pressed my hand to my mouth. "Another." The word came out muffled.

 _"'Now she had a fumbling knowledge that, had she ever understood Ashley, she would have never loved him; had she ever understood Rhett, she would never have lost him.'"_

"Another," I whispered.

 _"'She could not ignore life. She had to live it and it was too brutal, too hostile, for her even to try to gloss over its harshness with a smile.'"_

A chill ran down my spine. " _Gone With the Wind_ , you said?"

Austen nodded, and peered at me more closely. "Are you alright?"

"You're lucky," I managed to say. "That you haven't been in love. It's nothing but a recipe for heartbreak."

She looked down at her shoes. "That may be," she said, taking a step forward in line. "But it was wonderful while it lasted, wasn't it?" She gazed off into space for a moment wistfully. "I've read too many novels for it to have been some simple feeling, plain and bland."

I thought back to Will, to my head on his shoulder in the taxicab as he held me tight, to his lips as he kissed the top of my head, to his grin as he led me through the museum, to his shoulder brushing mine on top of the Empire State Building, to his lips on mine in a fast, frenzy kiss of fury and passion.

The problem about love, I thought, was that, as incandescently happy as you felt when it was building, you could easily feel just as wretched when it was destroyed.

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until Austen replied.

 _"'These violent delights have violent passions.'"_ She shook her head, finally stepping to the forward of the line. _"Romeo and Juliet."_

As soon as I stepped on board, I went to the front of the ship. I shoved past the bystanders, shoes clunking on the metal deck, and made my way to the helm, gripping the railing with both hands.

The salt spray was sweet and numbing, the feeling of my collarbone-length hair whipping my cheeks immensely satisfying. For a moment, I forgot the world, forgot everything but the smell of the ocean and the sight of the enormous conifers branching off of the islands, of the fin of a whale rising over the waves in the distance, of the crisp, clear water below me, of the craggy rocks and emerald green pines. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, the sunlight landing on dappled rays on the water, kissing the ocean's cheek, the islands of fir and rock, the bald eagle perched in its nest, white-crowned head cocked.

A little hand got a fistful of my jeans. I glanced down, surprised, and saw a small girl, maybe two years old, waddling around in an onesie. She had a tuft of dark hair and bright blue eyes, shimmering just like the sea.

I smiled. "Hi, there," I said.

She giggled, hugging my leg. I felt something stir in my chest. Was this what it would feel like, with my own child? The feeling of a child wrapped around my leg, the chubby hands encircling my calf, the cheek pressed into the cloth?

My heart skipped a beat, and I rubbed my stomach absentmindedly.

"Sally!" a woman cried, pushing her way through the throng of people on the boat. She was kind looking, the woman, with soft brown hair and coppery eyes. "God, I'm so sorry," she said, shoving her hair from her eyes. "She's a handful, this one." Her eyes fell on my stomach. "You got one of your own on the way?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. "Due in May."

The woman smiled. "How wonderful."

As she was speaking, the little girl – Sally – waddled over to the helm of the boat. A bit of salt spray washed onto her cheeks, and as I watched, the water seemed to morph into the shape of a hand. It caressed the girl's cheek, and as quickly as it appeared, fell back into the water.

My eyes fell on Sally with newfound interest. She was giggling. "Again!" she cried.

 _She had the Sight._

"Oh, pft," her mother said, scooping her up. "Apologies," she said to me, and carted Sally back inside, muttering close to the little girl's ear all the while.

It seemed to me that the Sight was more of a curse than a blessing. I shook my head, returning to the helm. God only knew what that little girl would go on to do.

At the end of the trip, I found Austen engrossed in _Pride and Prejudice,_ my suitcase propped by her knee. She glanced up at me. "Is it time to go already?" she said, bookmarking her page.

"Do you know where Martel's bed-and-breakfast is?" I asked.

"Of course I know. Jon practically lives there." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, rising to her feet. "How was the boat ride?"

I hesitated. "Austen, have you ever… seen something?"

She snorted. "I've seen a lot of things. On account of having a functioning pair of eyes, and all."

"I… Never mind." I shook my head. "So, how far is the B-and-B from where the ferry lets out? A couple of blocks?"

"I'd say so. Close enough that it's in the town center, at any rate."

After an incessant waiting period near the gates, we eventually stepped foot onto the island. It was a quiet, quaint town, with a marina composed of decks of sun-bleached wood, and a few cottage-like structures lining the main streets. Tourists walked around in Hawaiian shirts, carting maps and looking lost. I counted at least three ice cream parlors and two novelty shops.

My eyes fell upon a bookstore. "Hey, is it okay if I stop here for a minute?" I asked, gesturing toward the bookstore.

Austen snorted. "Sure. I work there."

"Really?"

"Yeah. My uncle's the manager, and he lets me man a couple of shifts on the weekends for some extra cash. I count myself lucky."

"Any chance you know where a copy of _Gone With the Wind_ might be?"

"Sure." She led me into the shop, a rusty bell mounted on the door tinkling as we went in. It was a small shop, lined with dusty shelves holding ancient-looking tomes, dimly-lit and the biggest fire hazard I'd ever set eyes on. Austen disappeared into the stacks and bought out a thick, hefty book. " _Gone With the Wind,_ by Margaret Mitchell."

I forked over a few dollars. "That enough?"

She gave one back. "On account of you being Martel's sister, I'll give you a discount."

"Thanks." I flipped through the pages. "Sure is a lengthy read."

"Yeah, but it's worth it. Believe me."

I opened to the first page. _Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom noticed it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were._ "I believe you."

###

Austen led me down a couple of blocks, past pavement, still rolling my suitcase behind her. Despite her hard exterior, she had a surprisingly soft side. We were becoming fast friends, and I figured that if she stuck around, I might just give her the story she'd anticipated.

We finally stopped in front of a tall, upright cottage. It was painted white, with black shutters and trim. Flowering rhododendron bushes wrapped around the cottage, petals littering the mulch beds. A hanging sign read _Bellerose Bed and Breakfast._

A man was flowering out front. Dressed in a pair of holey pants and a stained t-shirt, he had red hair and a scraggly beard. His eyes lit up with recognition and a hint of annoyance when he saw Austen. "Hey!" he called. "Mom's been looking for you for ages!"

"I know!" she shouted back, approaching him. "Why d'you think I escaped to Anacortes? I didn't want to deal with her."

He snorted. "There'll be hell to pay."

"You don't have to tell me that, Jon." She crossed her arms. "Where's Martel, anyhow?"

He shrugged, and it was so reminiscent of Austen that despite the lack of physical resemblance, I was hit with the similarity. "Inside, I think. Who's this?" he said, nodding his head to me. His eyes fell on my stomach, but, like Austen, Jon didn't comment.

"My name is Libre," I said quietly, stepping forward and outstretching my hand. "Libre Bellerose."

Jon's eyebrow lifted a millimeter. "Mar's sister, then."

"That'd be me."

He nodded. "I thought you were in New York."

My chest tightened. "I… I decided to come and stay here for a while. Don't worry," I rushed to assure him. "I won't just be taking up space. I fully plan to work and make use of everything. I'm not a deadweight, I just…"

He grinned. "You're exactly like Martel said you were."

"Like I said who was?" a man said, coming out of the cottage.

And all of a sudden my brother was standing there, his blond-haired, blue-eyed self, light and happy, wearing a flannel rolled up to the elbows and a pair of battered penny loafers. He'd grown a beard, and the worry lines around his mouth had been smoothed away, replaced by laughter lines at his eyes.

God, it had been so long since I'd seen him happy.

His gaze fell on me, and his eyes widened. "Libre?"

My lower lip wobbled. "Is it… Is it okay if I stay here for a little while?"

Martel's eyebrows creased, and he nodded. "Of course." He crossed the lawn in a few quick steps, pulling me in for a hug. "Of course."

###

The days of March settled into a rhythm. For the first week or so, I stayed in an extra room at the B-and-B, getting back on my feet. Neither Martel nor Jon knew why I left New York so suddenly, and I didn't have the capacity to tell them, to admit I'd had love – real, honest-to-God-and-truly love – and ruined it. I called Aunt Lise, told her I was alright, and that was that. My ties with New York had been severed.

After the first week, I made an effort to help Jon and Martel out at the inn with extra tasks. I made breakfast in the morning, flipped pancakes and fried up omelets. For money, I got a job at the bookstore where Austen worked, earning minimum wage five days a week. It was slower work, less taxing than waiting tables at the diner, and though it paid less, I figured it was worth it in the long run. My mental sanity was saved, even if my finances weren't.

I also read _Gone With the Wind_. While I'd heard of it before, I'd never really thought to learn what it was about. As it turned out, the story was about Scarlett O'Hara, a young Southern belle living in the American South on the eve of the American Civil War. The book – all fifteen-hundred pages or so – took me through her loves, the war between pretty boy Ashley and rascal Rhett, all against a dreary backdrop.

She ended up losing both of them.

Just like me.

And so I wrote Will a letter.

###

 _March 15, 1973_

 _Dearest Will,_

 _I am writing this letter not as a plea for forgiveness, but as an apology. Whether or not you choose to accept it is up to you, and I would not blame you if you simply tossed this letter into the trash. Whatever the case, all that I ask is that you read this letter to the end, and then decide your feelings on the matter._

 _By now you may or may not have I heard that I left New York. I am no longer living with my aunt, uncle, and the cousins in their apartment in the Bronx, but in Friday Harbor, an island in northwest Washington, across the country from New York._

 _I left because of you._

 _Will, whatever else happens, whatever else transpires, whatever other events are hurled into our lives, I need you to know one thing. I need you to know that I love you._

 _Some months ago in my life, I made a mistake. That mistake led me to believe that I could never be forgiven, that I was abhorrent. And maybe in some respects I am, but I was too self-loathing to believe that someone could love me, and when it was brought face-to-face, I was too afraid to admit that I might love you back, that despite the fact that my penance was not over, I had a chance at happiness._

 _That kiss wasn't platonic for me, either. It was wonderful – which, as it turns out, just may be the biggest understatement of the year. I was afraid, Will, because I'd had such joy when all I felt I deserved was pain and punishment now. It's my fault. I was too afraid to see what was right in front of my face, and so I turned away from you. I didn't allow myself to admit my feelings for you._

 _I know them now. I know that I love you, and I know that you almost certainly despise me. Whatever the case, I hope one day that you can come to forgive me._

 _I hope that you're happy now. I hope that you're saving up to go to college, to realize the dreams that lay in your future. I hope that you met a new girl and you're thinking of getting married, of starting a family of your own. Even now as I want that life more than anything, I want you to be happy._

 _Most of all, I want you to know that my biggest mistake yet was not getting pregnant in a barn in the middle of a cornfield, but keeping my mouth closed when you told me that you loved me. I've replayed that moment a thousand times over in my head, but what's done is done. The past is the past._

 _I'm broken right now. I think that maybe, just maybe, I can fix myself, but for right now, I need to figure out myself before I drag you down with me. Maybe we'll meet again. I hope so._

 _I just want you to know that, whatever you must think of me now, I knew that you loved me, somewhere inside. And I love you, too._

 _A friend of mine – a fourteen-year-old girl named Austen, with a bigger IQ than both of ours piled together – recommended a book to me. Gone With the Wind, it's called. I've sent a copy of the book along with this letter. Maybe, in reading it, you'll understand me a little better. In the words of Margaret Mitchell, author of the book: All she wanted was a breathing space in which to hurt._

 _I'm sorry, Will, for everything I've done. I hope one day that you can forgive me._

 _Love,_

 _Libre Bellerose_

 _P.S.: If it's a boy, I will still name it after you._

###

I left no return address.

* * *

 **A/N: Please review!**


	18. Chapter 2: April

**A/N: Back with April, a very important chapter. This is also the segway into an action-packed chapter, so stay tuned! ;)**

 **Note #1: Thanks again to all reviewers, who all truly make my day.**

 **Note #2: Rosestream, as always, thank you so much.**

 **Note #3: I got a guest review that asked a question, so I guess I'll just answer it here. This was the original review:** I'm sorry, but I'm really confused. Libre said that she loved Will back, but from the later chapters it said that she stated to him that she didn't love him back. Did I miss something? If I did, please let me know. I love this story so much, but I'm really confused

 **Okay, so, basically, in case anyone else was wondering, Libre had a big case of denial. She DID love Will, but she wasn't able to admit it to herself, and when faced with the truth and his impromptu declaration, she wasn't prepared to handle it. So now she's left with regret. Let me know if anyone has any other questions, and I'll either PM or post an answer here!**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing. I've used 2 or 3 different characters from PJO in this series. They're not mine.**

* * *

Two

 _April_

There was a pattern to life. Things came in threes, good and bad.

In April of 1973, only one was bad, and the other two were good. It seemed my luck had taken a turn for the better. Pablo Picasso died (bad), the Indian government launched a campaign to rescue tigers from the brink of extinction (good), and I gave birth to my daughter.

(Good.)

###

It was a sunny day in the fading dregs of April, the twenty-sixth, to be exact. Austen and I were sitting out on the marina, dangling our legs over the edge of the dock. My bare foot caressed the top of the water, skimming the filmy surface. A minnow swam away frantically, sent into a frenzy by the tip of my toe.

Austen and I had become fast friends that spring. Near the end of March, I'd told her my story, the full thing, up until I left for Washington, heartbroken over Will. After I finished, she just sat there, her brows creased. "Yeah," she said finally. "That's one helluva story. I was right."

The only thing I left out was the supernatural element. I did my best to block that unpleasant part from my memory, to purge the unknown from my thoughts. Since coming to Friday Harbor, I'd yet to meet any creatures of the other world, and aside from the incident with the girl on the boat, it was getting easier and easier for me to pretend that they didn't exist.

But then I'd think of Ares's eyes, those gaping pits, only to realize that they did exist after all.

Austen sighed, propping herself up on her elbows. "If you could wish for anything," she said, "anything at all, what would you wish for?"

I paused. "My mom and my sister back, probably." I hesitated. "To reverse time and tell Will that I loved him. To turn back the clock and shove Ares away. To be able to go back and stop Nicoline from heading to San Francisco in the first place, to stop the whole horrible chain of events. To save everybody."

"Wow," she said. "You're not very decisive, are you?"

I shrugged. "Maybe I'd just wish for an endless supply of wishes."

"Ugh. You're no fun." Austen tilted her head. "Me, if I had to wish for anything, I'd wish for love. Real, romantic love, like the kind in books, like what Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth have, and Mr. Rochester and Jane have. You know, Anna and Vronsky – before everything fell apart, that is – and Scarlett and Rhett, before she ruined everything. Emma and Mr. Knightley, obviously. Cathy and Heathcliff. Tristan and Isolde. Maybe even Kitty and Lenin, though I was always more partial to the tragedy."

I shook my head. "Love doesn't work like it does in books. Not the ones with happy endings, anyway. _Gone With the Wind_ was more accurate than anything else."

"Cynic."

"Truthful." I gestured to myself. "You see where love's gotten me?"

Austen sighed. "Your dreary outlook on life is making me jaded, Libre."

I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands. "I'm sorry. I'm just… not in a particularly good mood today." I put a hand over my eyes, shading them from the sun. "Who are all of those people, anyway? You must've listed at least ten book couples."

"Not really. I got a couple from Jane Austen, a couple from the Brontë sisters, a couple from Shakespeare, some from Anna Karenina, and of course Scarlet and Rhett are from _Gone With the Wind_."

"You sure do read a lot, don't you?" I said wryly.

"How observant." Austen laughed, and I laughed with her, throwing my head back. It felt more like summer than spring, the sun warm on my skin, the water cool on my toes, the scent of sea brine lingering in the air, the whole world green with conifer trees.

And then I felt a popping sensation, a small wetness coating the inside of my legs, a trickle of fluid coating my jeans. My eyes flew open, and I placed a hand on my stomach. "Oh, my God," I said, heart skipping a beat.

"What?" Austen said, looking concerned. "What's the matter?"

I felt a tightening in my abdomen, almost imperceptible. "I think…" I swallowed. "I think my water just broke."

Austen scrambled to her feet, looking horrified. "What? But the baby's not supposed to come until May!"

"I know the baby's not supposed to come until May," I snapped. "I'm not an idiot, for God's sake." My abdomen tightened further, cramping, and I winced. "Shit. Austen, we need to go back to the B-and-B. Now."

Her face whitened. "What? Are you going into labor?"

I rolled my eyes. "Not yet, but probably very soon. I just need to go back home until the contractions start in earnest, and then Martel can take me to the hospital."

"Holy shit." Austen looked as if she was about to pass out. "Are you – do you need to lean on me, or something?"

I shoved myself to my feet, bracing myself on the back of my heels. "No. It's going to be alright, okay? I'll be fine. I just need to get back to the cottage."

She nodded, her pupils dilated to the size of quarters. "O-okay. I can… I can do that. We can do that. Right?"

"Right," I said, wondering how on earth I'd gotten the misfortune of having to comfort someone else while I was about to go into labor.

###

I wish I could say that I remember everything with perfect clarity, but the unbearable haze of pain somewhat detracted from the overall experience. Things came in bits and snatches after that, fistfuls of memory falling like silk through my fingers.

I remember getting back to the cottage, arriving at the paved drive slightly pale and strained. The rhododendron bushes were in full, vivid bloom; blossoms of magenta and violet. Martel's face whitened to the color of schoolroom chalk, while Jon turned red, marinara sauce and holly berries. I remember laying down on the couch until it was time to go to the hospital.

I remember chewing ice chips, gripping Austen's hand tightly. She offered to stay with me in the room while Martel and Jon waited out in the hall. If I'd been back in New York, Will would have been there. He would have been pacing up at down the tiles, wearing a hole through the floor with his rubber soles. As it was, he was across the country, unaware that this was happening. Unaware that I was about to welcome someone new into the world.

I remember a hospital bed, a pillow that I hurled across the room in a fit of anger. I remember that an epidural was offered, but I shoved it away. My child, whoever they were, whoever they would go on to be, was half-god, if Ares and my grandmother were telling the truth. Or half-demon, if my suspicions were correct. Either way, they were unnatural, not wholly of this world. Who knew what drugs would do?

I remember the pattern in the ceiling tiles, remember the vase of wilted daisies on the windowsill. I remember a doctor's looming face, remember screaming, a shout ripping itself out of my body, clawing its way up my throat, not of my own accord, but of my lungs'. Sometimes you just need to scream, and whatever your mind says, your head throws itself back and lets it rip, a huge, hoarse, impossibly loud cry. A battle cry. A warrior cry.

I remember the smell of antiseptic. I remember how the pains came and went.

I remember Austen sitting beside me, pale but stony-faced. She had stuck with me through this. I'd know her for so little time, and yet she was here.

I remember that the doctors played The Beatles. _Dear Prudence,_ at the beginning. And when my daughter came out into the world, when she let out a wail just like her mother had done, they were playing _Hey, Jude._

I remember laying on the bed, exhausted but elated, my daughter curled up in my arms. I remember stroking her soft cheek, pressing my nose to the top of her wrinkled head and inhaling. She smelled like a baby, smelled like softness and sweetness. How could someone so callous like Ares contribute to such a delicate thing, so breakable, so fragile? How could I?

I remember thinking that this girl, this little girl in my arms, had been so many things in my life already before she was even born. I remember thinking that she had been the cause of heartbreak. She was the reason I left home, she was the reason I pushed Will away again and again. And as I looked at her, touched her tiny, button-sized nose, I absolved her of any guilt. She was innocent, my daughter, a perfect little bundle of soft, snuffling breaths, healthy and strong. She hadn't had the chance to make any mistakes yet.

And so I did not name her after my sister Nicoline, or after my mother Amorette. I did not name her after Prudence in my favorite Beatles song.

I gave her a new beginning.

I named her Jude Austen Bellerose. I named her after the girl who stayed with me, at my side, after knowing me for only a month and a half or so, and who was there to see my daughter born. It seemed only right that she should have a part in my daughter's name.

And as for her first name?

I did not want my daughter to carry with her the sins of those who had come before her. She should not have to bear the name of Nicoline, or Amorette, of drugs and suicide. She should not have to bear the name of Prudence, the song I listened to when my heart was broken.

She was new, my daughter, and so I named her Jude, after the song the doctors were playing when she was born, the music with which she came into the world. A new beginning.

To this day, _Hey, Jude_ is my favorite song.

That is my daughter, Jude Austen Bellerose. She is entirely her own, and all the more perfect for it. She is loved even now, for while I might have lost Will, I still had her. There is more than one type of love, and the love I felt for Jude was even more powerful than the love I had for the boy in the diner.

###

I'd taken over a room at the bed-and-breakfast. It was a small room, with lilac-patterned wallpaper and a simple twin bed, an open window with cotton curtains. A tiny crib sat in the corner, waiting for an occupant.

After I got home from the hospital, Jude in my arms, I laid her down in the crib. I stroked her cheek, watched her blink at me with her inquisitive, baby-blue eyes. They were the color of cornflowers, I thought at the time, the shade of the sky my grandmother used to watch so captivatingly. They were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"I love you," I said, a tear of joy sliding down my cheek. "I won't ever let anything happen to you, okay? I love you."

I loved her more than anything. Such is a mother's love, at least in my experience. I loved – love – Jude unquestionably, unconditionally. I would do anything for her, anything at all. I would die for her, lay down my life for her.

I'd thought the summer of 1972 held nothing but sorrow, but I was beginning to think that Jude had not been a curse at all, but a blessing. A godsend from whatever karmic force was out there, a compensation for my mother and my sister.

We've taken so much from you, the karmic force had said. Now we'll give something back.

"I love you," I murmured, still crying quietly in my lilac-patterned room of soft lavenders and whites. "I love you, my Jude."

###

I named Martel and Fitz the godfathers. We finally reached Fitz, and he came to visit us in Friday Harbor. When he saw Jude, tiny in his burly, farm laborer's arms, he sobbed, too. My father and grandmother could not afford to come and visit, but each sent lengthy letters. I named Austen the godmother.

My life settled into a peaceful rhythm. After a week or so, I went back to work at the bookstore. Austen quit her work and babysat Jude instead, though I couldn't pay her. "I don't care," she said. "I'm a godmother, and I want to uphold my godmother duties."

I built a life for myself in Friday Harbor, away from New York, away from Will and Ares. I didn't need him, after all, though my drachma sat still and unmoved at the bottom of my lockbox. This was my new life now, and despite everything that had gone wrong, I wouldn't wish for anything different. As it turned out, I didn't need wishes after all.

I'd forgotten something, though. Something important that my grandmother had told me.

Demigods are hunted, and not by anyone in the realm of mortals, she'd said. Demigods are hunted by demons from Tartarus, the hell of all hells.

My life became peaceful only to be tossed upside-down all over again.

Ares was right. I was going to need him again after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Please review!**


	19. Chapter 3: May, Pt 1

**A/N: Here's the first part of the May chapters. The spring part will have March, April, May 1-3, and June. Following that, there'll be an epilogue (a part VI, if you will) and then we're done.**

 **Tomorrow, I'm going on vacation. Unfortunately, the house I'm staying at (largely in the middle of nowhere) has no wifi, and I'm in an island with literally no chains or anything, so I may not be able to check/update this for a little while. Sorry for the inconvenience! I'll be back around July 22. Now, back to the story!**

 **Note #1: Rosestream, thanks so much for your input. You're the best. (I tried to fix the convo, let me know if I did alright.)**

 **Note #2: Thanks to all reviewers! (#60! WHOOP!)**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nada. (Look at me, all bilingual.)**

* * *

Three

 _May: Part I_

It was a night in late May. The whole world felt more like summer and spring, sun just beginning to sink below the murky horizon, the sky a lavender-lilac color. I was sitting alone on the porch in a creaky rocking chair, Jude asleep in my arms. She snuffled.

I nudged my purse at my feet. It bulged with my lockbox, full of a few days' wages and my savings. Martel, the bastard, had convinced me to keep my cash at the bank. I was headed to make a deposit the following morning.

My thoughts, as usual, had strayed to Will. I wondered if he'd gotten my letter, if he even cared. If this hurting would ever stop, my heart almost broken in my chest. It hadn't been this way when Ares left. I'd been angry then, so angry I couldn't see straight, but now all I felt was sadness. Anger was always the easier emotion. Ares and I had that in common.

Jude stirred, opening her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed, and she began to cry, a small, pitiful wail.

I rocked her, attempting to shush her, but she only grew louder. Her strong, healthy howl never failed to amaze me. _Strong,_ especially for a baby; big and healthy.

Some part of me wondered if that had to do with Ares, if he was really telling the truth. If he really was the Greek god of war.

Did Jude have a warrior's spirit, impossibly strong bones, agility and balance in every cell?

I shook my head, reaching for a half-empty plastic bottle by my feet. "Are you hungry?" I cooed, but she just sobbed even harder and higher. I raked a hand through my hair and rose to my feet, closing my eyes. That was the thing about being a new mother: you were always tired. _Always._

But a little while ago, I'd found that strapping Jude into the stroller and taking her for a walk calmed her, even if just a bit; subdued her angry screams. It was a little late for a stroll, but it was nice out; cool and crisp.

I went over to the end of the porch and lowered her in. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I pushed it down the drive and began to walk.

Friday Harbor was peaceful at night. It was a small place, a population so tiny that I already knew almost everyone on the island. Most of the shops were closed this late, and the streets were deserted, save for a congregation by the ferry. The last of the night, I thought. In fifteen minutes or so, it would head back to the mainland.

I turned onto the main street. An ice cream shop was still open, light flooding out onto the poorly-paved streets, and my stomach growled. I'd been trying to lose the weight Jude had given me, and though I was almost there, I desperately wanted a chocolate ice cream cone. Shaking my head, I went to the other side of the street and took a detour in the hopes I wouldn't spoil everything. There were only about ten pounds or so left to lose.

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I'd lost everything, but I found small goals to set for myself all the same. Found hope to improve, however small.

The side street was nearly empty, darkened, weather-beaten shops with _closed_ signs swung into place. Jude had stopped crying, and I figured in a few minutes or so, I could double back and head for a good night's rest. I sighed again, tucking a curl of hair behind my ear, my own eyes fluttering shut as I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk.

A lumbering shape stepped out from the alleyway.

I froze, heart hammering in my chest, crawling up into my throat.

The shadow was enormous: eight feet tall, with thick, shaggy hair, wearing an oversized flannel shirt, ripped jeans, and Birkenstocks. But the creature wasn't a man. It couldn't be.

One enormous, bulbous eye was set into the center of his fleshy forehead. The pupil was a bright, iridescent green.

And all of a sudden, the monsters of my childhood, the monsters hiding under my bed, the monsters in my grandmother's stories, came rushing back to me with the force of a ten-foot tidal wave.

 _Cyclops._

"Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death," I whispered, making the sign of the cross in an unconscious gesture.

The Cyclops cocked its head.

My thoughts were whirling. Monsters didn't come to small towns. There was nothing to drive them here. My grandmother had told me…

She'd told me…

They craved demigods. They ate children of gods.

My hands tightened on my stroller.

The Cyclops smiled, but it was not quite a smile. Its lips peeled back in a garish grin, one crooked tooth poking out over its lower lip. "Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death," it repeated. Its voice was a perfect imitation of mine.

I stuffed a fist in my mouth to stifle a scream.

Jude stirred in her stroller and began to cry. The Cyclops fixated its gaze on her and cocked its head, garish smile widening further. "What a pretty baby," it rasped, still in an odd voice— _my_ voice. My heart quickened in my chest, pulse hammering impossibly fast. The monster reached a hand big enough to span a basketball out, walking toward my child. "Godly born." It turned its nose up, sniffing the air.

The Cyclops fixated its gaze on Jude and cocked its head, garish smile widening further. "What a pretty baby," it rasped, still in my own voice.

This time, I did scream, wrenching the stroller out of the way before the Cyclops could so much as brush his finger along her cheek. "Don't you dare touch my baby, or I swear to whatever god or gods you find holy that you'll regret it," I said, attempting to sound venomous, but my wavering voice was unsteady and shrill, wholly unconvincing.

"What are you doing so far away from the camp, little one?" the Cyclops cooed, still looking at my baby.

A couple on the other side walked down the street, but they didn't seem to notice the Cyclops. _The Mist,_ I thought. They didn't notice it because they couldn't see it.

I tried to backpedal, but the Cyclops's hand closed over my arm. "Not so fast," it said, still with that unsettling grin.

And that was when I stamped my foot on his and kicked him violently in the shin. It didn't seem to particularly faze it, but it was enough time for me to wrench Jude from the stroller. She began to bawl. The Cyclops cursed in some foreign language—Greek, I thought—and closed its meaty fist around my arm in a grip tight enough to make me scream.

"You'll pay for that," it said, this time in its own voice. It was infinitely more terrifying than mine, rough and low.

 _Why hadn't I listened? Why had I been so hell-bent on trying to forget this world?_

Now I was going to pay for it—or, worse, Jude was.

"You'll get her over my dead body," I said, my voice strong for the first time since meeting the creature. I was Libre Bellerose. I fired a shotgun. I called the Greek god of war a motherfucker. I could take a Cyclops.

Thank God my brothers had taught me how to hock a loogie. I spat into his eyes.

It was just enough for me to snatch my arm out of his grip, Jude in my arms, stroller skittering down the street. She sobbed, and I began to run, faster than I'd ever run before. I was sprinting, pavement rushing under my feet, taking care not to stumble. Adrenaline flooded my veins, spilling into my bloodstream. I'd grown up on a farm. I was strong, with a worker's arms. I could do this. I would do this. There was no other option. That Cyclops was _not_ getting my kid.

But it was also impossibly fast. What was it my grandmother had said? Something about a crowd of people being the best place to hide.

I couldn't lead it back home. It would just corner me. I had to escape.

I had to go back to a city, but I was on an island. There were no cities.

And as I turned the corner, Jude's cries loud and petulant, I knew what I had to do.

The ferry.

I could hear the grunts of the Cyclops behind me, and I shoved my way through to the docks. The boat was leaving in a minute or two, and I had just enough of a lead to get myself to the ticket booth. I reached a hand into my bag, slapping a wad of cash on the counter. "Get me a ticket," I told the woman behind the counter, my voice desperate. I was panting, my heart thumping erratically in my chest. _"Now."_

Wide-eyed, she did as I asked. I didn't even wait for my change. I just ran back to the boat, climbing on just seconds before it began to pull away, distancing itself from the mainland.

The Cyclops reached the edge. We were just far enough away.

If I had gone anywhere else, done anything else, been even seconds slower, he would have gotten us. Me and Jude both.

The roar of the Cyclops was deafening.

By the time the ferry reached the open water, Jude wasn't the only one crying.

# # #

I didn't know how long I stayed out on the back deck. My cheeks were wet when I came inside, collapsed at a rubbery booth. My heart's erratic thumps had stilled to a steady beat, my entire body sagging with the sudden loss of adrenaline. Jude was asleep snuggled in the crook of my arm.

There were few other people sitting around me: a middle-aged tourist couple with polaroid cameras strung around their necks and flamboyant Hawaiian shirts, a mother with a young, sleeping son dozing with his head on her lap; a group of college students passing around a bottle in a paper bag.

I fought to breathe. I had to get back to New York. Aunt Lise had to take me in. She _had_ to. She was the only chance Jude and I had at survival. I couldn't go back to being a small-town girl, not as long as I had Jude.

I felt something akin to despair. How were we ever going to survive? If my grandmother was right—and thus far, she'd been correct on all counts—Jude was always going to be hunted, and mortal weapons couldn't kill otherworldly beasts.

Despair knotted in my chest. I needed help.

I needed Ares.

The realization nearly knocked me off my feet. Hands trembling, I reached for my purse. I fumbled inside for my lockbox and opened it gingerly. There was all my savings and a somewhat substantial amount at that. Buried beneath crumpled paper bills was a dull gold coin, melted at the sides.

My drachma.

What was it Ares had said? I needed to make a rainbow of some sort, toss the coin into a rainbow, and say his name, clearly and loudly. It sounded crazy, but then again, this whole night had been batshit. There was no other way to put it.

I closed my eyes. I had no other choice. Ares was my best bet. Maybe he could protect Jude. He was the god of war—could he train me? Could he give me a weapon that could kill monsters? When Jude got old enough, could he train her? If she really did have supernatural strength, as I suspected, she might be able to fend off the monsters, but that wouldn't be for another decade, best-case scenario.

There was something the cyclops had said about a camp. Was it a sort of refugee camp for people like us?

So many questions, and I only knew one way to get answers.

I set my jaw. Either way, I couldn't risk any more small towns. I had the whole of my savings with me. As soon as the ferry dropped off at Anacortes, I'd catch a bus to the Tacoma airport and get to New York City. Once I was in the city, I'd find a car wash and use one of the spray nozzles to make a rainbow. Then I'd try the trick with the drachma.

God, I hoped it worked. It _had_ to.

Ares might be able to help me. Then, as soon as he did, I would move back in with Aunt Lise. I'd tell Martel that there was an emergency in New York, that there was a friend that had written me a letter and pleaded for my help. Or something like that—I'd have to figure out the details. Either way, my peaceful life in Friday Harbor was over. As long as I had Jude with me, anyway.

I fought back tears. My plan rested on so many ifs, so many God-willings. I didn't even know if it would work, but I had no better ideas.

I held Jude tight, squeezed my eyes shut, and began to do the only thing I could manage right now; pray.

"Our Father," I whispered, "who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…"

# # #

That night, I caught a bus to Tacoma, the airport just south of Seattle.

I didn't sleep a wink. I stared out the window, Jude sleeping peacefully in my arms. I gazed at the lights passing, wondering what Martel and Jon would think when I wasn't there the next morning with Jude, when Austen came to perform her godmother duties only to discover there were no duties to perform. I hoped one day I could return to Friday Harbor, to live out the peaceful life I'd made for myself. I doubted it.

When I got to Tacoma, the sky was just beginning to lighten. On the street, still clutching Jude, I squeezed myself into a telephone booth and called home. Martel picked up the phone, his voice groggy. "Bellerose Bed-and-Breakfast, Martel Bellerose speaking. How can I help you?"

"Martel?" I said, my voice scratchy.

"Libre? What the hell are you doing, calling the B&B at six in the morning? Aren't you in bed?"

"No," I said, tightening my grip on Jude. She stirred, beginning to wake up. "I'm not in bed."

"Then where the hell are you? Where's Jude?" Martel sounded more alert now.

I swallowed. "I'm in Tacoma. Jude's with me."

There was a long pause. "The airport? What the hell are you doing there?"

"I'm going back to New York."

Martel cursed. "Jesus, Libre, you can't just run off. How fucking irresponsible are you? And with a kid?"

I closed my eyes, feeling as if I were in physical pain. "Someone I know is in trouble, Martel, alright? Someone back in New York."

"Oh, who, your precious Will?" Martel scoffed.

I inhaled sharply, feeling as if I'd been slapped. "I—"

His voice softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just—I don't understand, Libre. Are your things still here? Did you take anything with you?"

"No," I said, voice trembling. "I—there wasn't time."

"There wasn't time to what?" he asked, sounding frustrated. "What made you leave in the middle of the night with no note, no nothing?"

"I…" I swallowed. "I can't exactly explain it."

He paused. "What do you mean, you can't exactly _explain_ it?"

"Something came up. Something big. I just… I couldn't…" I squeezed my eyes shut.

There was a long pause. Then: "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Indignation rose in me. "Don't you dare judge me, Martel."

"Really? You're pulling that card?" he said, laughing bitterly. "Oh, face it, Libre. You came here on a whim and you're leaving on a whim. You know, I almost thought you were better than this. Better than Nicoline, better than _Maman_ , with their easy cop-outs and hasty exits."

"I _am_ ," I whispered, voice choked.

"No, you're not," he said, voice viciously cutting. "God, Libre, I'm trying to understand. I really am. But you push me away every time I try, don't you? And there's a good reason. You don't explain because there's not a good explanation."

"That's not it," I protested weakly.

"Yes, it is. God. I know how bad you're hurting, but Jesus Christ, when are you going to wake up and stop opening yourself up to the hurt? You throw everything away just as long as it suits you. You take stupid risks; go across the country with a suitcase and a cruddy lockbox, get knocked up at sixteen. You fuck up your life."

I pressed a hand to my mouth, but he kept going. Relentless. He'd been holding this in longer than I realized.

"You're no better than Nicoline," he said, hard and unflinching. "You're fucking up your own life, and now you're going to fuck up Jude's, too. At the very least, you should've left her here with us. We would've taken care of her. We would've paid her a second thought. Which is more than I can say for you."

Anger rose in my chest then, sudden and furious.

Ah, how I'd missed my reckless, storming temper. The will that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

"You don't know anything," I snarled, suddenly furious. "You know _nothing_ , Martel Bellerose. Not about me, not about how I live my life."

"You're right, I guess," he said after a short pause. "I don't. But until you decide to let me into your sacred little web of secrets and lies, I'm inclined to believe the worst, with your shining medallion of a track record. Keep deluding yourself into thinking that you're somehow a good person. A good parent." He snorted derisively. "Don't consider yourself welcome back here. Not until you're willing to accept the consequences of your actions and look in the fucking mirror for once in your goddamned life."

The line went dead.

I stood there, shutting my eyes. I pressed a hand over my heart, my lower lip wobbling.

Jude's tiny fist came up and swatted at a strand of my hair. She made a little cooing sound, tiny and small.

I brushed my hand across my cheeks, swiping for tears that weren't there. It seemed I'd lost my ability to cry. A person only had so many tears in them before they got washed away, made into an ocean like Alice's sea of tears in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I had none left.

I had lost my sister to drugs, my mother to suicide, my life to an unexpected pregnancy, the only boy I'd ever dared to really love to the delusions wrapped firmly round my heart, my home to an unbearable burden none of us could shoulder, my father and grandmother to a longing for their homeland, my heart to my own self-imposed penance with an infinite sentence, my brother to my lack of explanations. I feared losing my daughter to the monsters that lurked in the dark.

God knew I'd lost my pride and self-worth so long ago that I could no longer remember what they even _felt_ like.

How much was a person supposed to bear before they shattered? How long was I supposed to carry this burden on my shoulders? How many times was I supposed to let my heart break? How many times would I have to pick myself up off the ground, again and again and again, my heart so broken that I couldn't even _feel_ it anymore?

Because that's what it was now. A loss of feeling. I'd felt so much lately that it had used up my capacity to feel at all.

Sooner or later, I was going to snap. But what then? Would I lose my mind completely? Drive myself to a mental institution, check myself in?

Jude made a little noise, drawing my attention to her eyes. Cornflower-blue, just like the sky back home.

She was it, I supposed. She was the one thing that was forcing me to hold myself together. I didn't owe it to myself anymore; that ship had sailed. But I still owed it to her.

She was the last part of me, the last part of my life, the one thing that was not broken or ruined or destroyed, and I was going to keep it that way.

And so I straightened my spine, tilted my chin up. A numbness set into me like a midwinter cold, but this time, there was no will (Will) to warm me up.

I had a plane to catch and a god to track down.

Fuck feelings. Who needed them, anyway?

* * *

 **A/N: Please review!**


	20. Chapter 4: May, Pt II

**A/N: I'm not back from vacation just yet, but I do have wi-fi now, so I should be able to update things. Anyhow, here's a (hopefully exciting) chapter for you guys.**

 **Note #1: As always, props go to Rosestream for beta-ing. Thanks so much!**

 **Note #2: To all reviewers: I'm sending you all cakes. You're the best.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nada.**

* * *

Four

 _May: Part II_

I was back in New York early that evening. The plane ride had been uneventful, spent sitting in a window seat, Jude in my arms, focusing on the small things to dull the pain inside. The plastic of the tray-table, the grains of salt coating the stale pretzels, my tepid tap water in a Dixie cup, the argument of an aged couple sitting on our left, Jude's soft baby hands. I wished I were able to sleep, but peace evaded me, much as I tried.

I thought about what Austen had said, about my life being a helluva story. If my life was a story, then it was a tale of tragedy, some Shakespeare play about death and betrayal. Several times I had to blink fast to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. I scrounged up what little pride and self-respect I had left and honored it by refusing to weep.

The plane touched down in White Plains, north of the city. I could catch a train or a bus to the city, but what I needed was a rainbow. Or, at this point, a miracle, but I wasn't picky.

In a convenience shop in the airport, I found a map and located a car wash a few miles away. The sun was setting, and I didn't have much time. I bought a cheap stroller with my rapidly diminishing funds and found a bus that would take me within a block or two of the car wash. My heart was beating fast, despite my efforts to stay calm. _Ares,_ quiet voices whispered into my ear. _Ares, Ares, Ares, Ares, Ares._

The sun was balanced precariously when I finally got to the car wash, heart in my throat. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and went over to a nozzle. The thing was slick and wet in my hands, and I sent a silent prayer to whatever deity existed.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the drachma. I wheeled Jude off to the side.

"Please, God," I whispered.

Aiming for the sun, I sent a spray of water toward the orange light. A faint rainbow appeared. "Please," I said, my voice carrying clear and high, though it trembled. "Whatever god is out here, whoever is watching over this, please accept this coin and connect me to Ares, god of war." I swallowed, tossing the drachma into the mist. "Ares."

It worked: the spray shimmered, and, right before my eyes, a mirror-like surface seemed to materialize in thin air, flat and shiny as a silver dollar.

And there was Ares, standing before me. His back was to me. He was in some sort of garden, walking, his head bowed in thought.

He was just as I remembered him: leather jacket, ripped jeans, AC/DC t-shirt. Burly and muscular, slick, oiled hair, clunky Ray-Bans.

My heart stopped for a moment and then resumed beating. After so many hours hating him, so many hours wishing he were dead, here he was, right before me.

"Ares," I said. My voice shook.

He jumped, turning around. "Who—" He trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. "Libre. I… What…"

I swallowed. "I need your help." I hated the way my voice sounded; thin and pathetic. I was eating my words, proverbial foot firmly wedged into my mouth.

Ares, to his credit, just furrowed his eyebrows. "Why… what…"

I turned around and unstrapped Jude, my hands trembling so badly that I could hardly even lift her. I held her up for Ares to see. His eyes widened even further, and he let out a horrific curse that made me cringe. "Is that—"

"Please," I whispered. "Please, help me."

His lips were compressed into a thin white line of fury. He ripped off his Ray-Bans, eyes squeezing shut, fist clenching. "Where are you?"

"A car wash just outside of White Plains."

"Stay right there," Ares said, a muscle in his jaw jumping erratically. "I'm coming."

# # #

It was an hour before Ares arrived on his motorcycle. I didn't know where he'd come from. One moment, I was sitting on the curb, Jude propped upright in my lap, and the next he was before me, tall, imposing, and so furious that, chickenshit I was, I physically shrank back from him.

He swung his leg over the motorcycle. "You alright?" he said gruffly, assessing me.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just looked at the ground. "Her name is Jude," I said finally, at a loss for what else to say.

Ares exhaled. "Is she mine?"

I rose to my feet, meeting him eye-to-eye. I had to crane my neck back at my short stature, and I felt so emotionally, mentally, and physically drained that I felt smaller and shorter than ever. "First and foremost, she is my child. But yes, she shares your blood." I deflated, swaying a little on my feet. Almost twenty-four hours without food or sleep had taken its toll.

Ares caught me, propping me upright. He was still angry—his lips were still pressed into a flat line, his jaw still set—but he looked marginally concerned. "What happened?"

"What do you want to know?" I asked, feeling exhausted. "It's a long story, Ares, and not the good kind."

His eyes flicked over me, from my battered shoes to my greasy hair. "What do you want to tell me? You look exhausted."

I didn't answer, I just rocked from foot-to-foot, eyes fluttering. "I—"

With a growl, Ares waved his hand. The motorcycle disappeared, replaced with a low, black sedan with tinted windows. He yanked open the passenger door and nearly shoved Jude and me inside. "Get in," he said, a bit unnecessarily, seeing as how we were already in. "There's a twenty-four-hour diner down the street. They serve cheap, strong coffee and a damn good apple pie. Once we're there, I fully expect you to tell me everything."

"Define everything," I said, drawing Jude up to my chest.

Ares walked around the car, nearly ripping the door off its hinges as he got behind the wheel. "Start with the grandmother that somehow knew I was a god," he said, his voice like molten steel. "Work your way from there."

I laughed bitterly. "Oh, you're going to regret that."

"I'm going to regret it?" he shouted, slamming his fist down on the wheel. "Why the _fuck_ didn't you contact me when you knew you were going to have my kid?"

"Because I wanted you out of my life forever," I said, simply and plainly. "I hate you."

"The feeling is mutual," he said through gritted teeth.

"Not as much as I hate you, you son of a bitch," I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. "You ruined my life."

"I didn't rape you, Libre," he said, calmly and collectedly.

 _Crack._ Before I even realized what had happened, my palm was stinging, and Ares had a red mark on his cheek. I stared at my hand, half-triumphant, half-shocked.

Ares moved his jaw. It made a popping sound. If he was furious before, now he was livid. "Do that again, and you'll live to regret it."

"I'll live to regret it?" I made a choking sound of disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"I'm the god of war, girl," he said, and he seemed to morph, becoming bigger, stronger. "Do you really want to play with me?"

And that was when I lost it. That's when I snapped. That was it.

"Do I really want to _play_ with you?" I shouted. Jude lay on the seat beside me, her blue eyes wide. I took a deep, shuddering breath. For a moment, I didn't say anything, I just looked down at my hands. "I'm going to say some things now, and you're going to listen."

Ares laughed. "I'm going to listen to you, a petty mortal?"

I stared up at him, and he flinched—really, genuinely flinched—at my gaze. "You're going to listen to me," I said, slowly, impossibly levelheaded, considering the circumstances, "because if you don't—"

"You'll what? Slap me again?"

I smiled cruelly. "Take a minute from your self-absorbed lifestyle of being an abominable prick and listen to the girl holding the baby, will you?"

He muttered something under his breath, but slumped back in his seat, burly forearms bulging as he folded his arms.

I tried to figure out where to start. I'd wanted to tell him this for so long. I'd wanted to say all of these secret things that were locked up inside for so many days and weeks and months—almost a year now—and yet, when the time came, I couldn't figure out how to make these secret things known.

So I did what I could. I took a breath.

And I talked. I told him everything. And when I was done, when I'd told him the whole sordid story, I didn't feel satisfaction, like I thought I would, or a twisted sense of triumph at bringing him to his scarred knees with my tale of woe. I just felt… sad. And numb. Mostly numb.

I guess the thing about not feeling anything is that, while you can't feel the bad things, you can't feel the good things, either.

"God, Ares," I said, wiping my cheeks with the heel of my hand. "I just—I'm so tired. I'm tired and sore and sick inside. I want my life back. I want to go back and reverse time because I can't fix this anymore." A sob clogged in my throat. "It's too broken. I'm broken now. And I don't know that I can be fixed, or even that I want to be fixed. I've had to leave my home so many times that I don't even think I know what home means anymore. I had to sever ties with my brother just to keep Jude safe. My grandmother told me once that the only safety I'd ever get was in numbers. That's why I came back to New York." I paused, searching for words. For any words, really. I was just talking to fill up space.

"I don't know what you can give me," I said at last. "I don't know that you can or will help me. God knows I despise the ground you walk on." I sniffed, taking a deep breath.

"But here's the thing: I'm done. I'm done with living. This world has done nothing but wring my soul out so many times that I can't even stand on my own two feet anymore.

"So take Jude, Ares. Take her and protect her. Do what I can't. I'm done. I have nothing left to give."

The car was silent for a long time. I wasn't crying anymore; the tears had stopped. My words were matter-of-fact, blank. Impassive. Bleak. My voice, like the rest of me, had become numbed.

Ares exhaled. "Look at me," he said.

I turned to gaze at him. He was sad, sorrowful, his mouth turned down, twisted with regret. He took off his glasses, wiped them on the hem of his shirt, and put them back on again. "There's a camp," he said. "In Long Island. It takes in demigods and trains them, teaches them how to defend themselves. It will take in Jude and raise her. If you'd told me sooner about the pregnancy, I would've brought Jude there as soon as she was born. My children tend to be among the most at-risk, save of course for children of the Big Three. Those of Demeter, Aphrodite, Hermes… they can usually survive on their own. Athena and Hephaestus aren't particularly well-off, either. But otherwise…" He shook his head. "You're lucky that it was only a Cyclops, and not something worse."

I was quiet. I swallowed and nodded. "Thank you."

He was silent. "You're beautiful, you know," he said. "Impossibly so. If things had been different, if they hadn't… progressed so quickly, I might've fallen in love with you."

"But you didn't."

Ares shook his head. "No. I didn't."

I turned to leave. "If you could get Jude to the camp, that would be much appreciated, but I think I need to be on my way now."

He caught my wrist. "You're not leaving. Not yet. You've had your say, and now it's time for me to have mine."

I gave him a blank, empty stare.

His gaze grew strangely, surprisingly tender and soft, at odds with his rough appearance. "I made a mistake." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "You were too young. I know that, and I'm sorry for it."

"A million apologies won't turn back time."

"And would you want to turn back time, if you had the chance?" Ares shook his head. "You say that you fell in love, that you met somebody. Everyone makes mistakes, Libre. It's not just a human attribute. It's something that I do, that all gods do. The true mark of somebody is learning to fix them."

"And how the hell am I going to fix things?" I felt tears stinging my eyes. "I'm _broken_ , Ares."

"Find him."

I blinked. "What?"

Ares shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "The boy that you fell in love with. He fell in love with you, too, didn't he? Let me guess: went head-over-heels for you, got lost in those big green eyes like I did, and you were so absorbed in trying to atone for our steamy days in the barn that you refused to accept that anyone could love you?"

"How did you—"

"I have an affair going with the goddess of love," Ares said, rolling his eyes heavenward. "And besides, you mortals are so pathetically easy to predict."

"It's too late," I said, shaking my head.

"It's never too late," Ares contradicted, shaking his head. "Find him, Libre. Trust me. Stop living in pointless regret. Go back and fix what you can."

I swallowed. "Even if I did find him, even if he did take me back, my family still hates me."

"Why?" Ares asked.

"Because they think I'm irresponsible and stupid."

"And why is that?"

"Because I got on the ferry," I said. "To save our lives, when I was running to the cyclops. I left last-minute to go to Friday Harbor, and now they think I'm no better than my sister." I looked down at my hands. "In fact, they probably think I'm worse."

"Say that you signed up for an adoption," Ares said.

"What?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "By the Styx, you mortals are thick. Tell them that you signed up for adoption some time ago and forgot about it, and a last-minute offer came through and you had to hurry. You wanted to offer Jude a chance she would never get otherwise: a two-parent home, a wealthy, aging couple that wanted nothing more than a child they'd never been able to have. You wanted to give Jude her best shot."

I stared at him. "I—"

"My point is," Ares said, "there's always some way to fix things. As impossibly bad as you think the world is now, it can still be fixed. Don't throw your life away just yet."

I didn't say anything. I just sat there.

"Here's what I'm going to do," said Ares. "I'm going to drive the both of you to the camp. I'll get you some food, and you can sleep in the car. You'll be safe with me, rest assured. Think it over." His shoulders drooped. "I'm sorry, Libre. Honestly, I am."

"Me, too," I said, my voice raw as a wound scrubbed with lye.

Ares reached a hand over as if to pat me on the back, and then thought better of it, withdrawing. I looked at him. "Thank you," I said. "Even if you are an abominable prick…" I trailed off. "You may have just saved my life."

"No thanks necessary," he said. "Trust me on that."

And then he drove off, and I leaned my head against the window, deciding to simply close my eyes and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Life was too hard to think about just then.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!**


	21. Chapter 5: May, Pt III

**A/N: Here's Part III! Sorry it took so long to update; I'm back from my vacations and I'm back in the swing of summer-reading school-year-prep. There will be one more chapter after this, an epilogue, and then the story's done. Thanks so much to everyone who's kept reading! You're all my inspiration. :)**

 **Note #1: Customary thanks to Rosestream. You're the best!**

 **Note #2: More thanks to reviewers, without whom this story would not have been possible.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I am poor. I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter Five

 _May: Part III_

I wasn't sure how long it was before Ares woke me, shaking me gently by my shoulders. I stirred, unwilling to open my eyes, but then my thoughts of the waking world invaded the world of the dreaming.

I lifted my head from the window, rubbing my gritty eyes tiredly. The black sedan had been pulled over to the side of the road. It was dark out and impossible to make out the surroundings. The sky was like a damp blanket settling over the landscape. A thick net of clouds obscured even the stars from view.

Ares had put a thick wax candle on the dashboard—from where, I didn't know—and lit it with a flickering red flame. It cast an odd light over the car. Jude was sound asleep, in Ares's arms, of all places, her head tucked contently in the crook of his elbow. He seemed almost natural, as if he'd done it many times before, cradled a baby gently, softly. It was an odd picture, and yet it seemed, somehow, to fit.

"Feeling better?" Ares asked quietly.

I nodded mutely. It was the truth: sleep had done me some good. I no longer felt like I wanted to leave the world, though I wasn't entirely certain what to do next. Maybe I'd take Ares's advice. The future seemed muddled, impossibly murky.

As I sat there, I let the feelings I'd been repressing fill me, infuse my veins. It was a slow process, and we sat in silence, the three of us, father, mother, and daughter. I felt sorrow, and happiness, content and unrest, uncertainty and exhaustion. But at least I was feeling something.

Ares picked up a bag of McDonald's off the dashboard. "It's a little cold," he said. "But you were passed out when I got it, and I didn't want to wake you."

"Thanks." I took the bag and peered inside: a plastic water bottle, soggy fries, and a hamburger. I ate the whole meal. I had a feeling it wouldn't matter either way; everything would taste like cardboard.

After I finished, I drew up my knees to my chin. "Where are we?" I asked.

"Long Island. Just outside the camp."

My breath hitched. "So this is where… This is where I leave her?"

Ares, to his credit, looked sympathetic. "It's the best thing for her. You can't take care of her, not properly. And not through any fault of your own. To shelter a demigod of power in the mortal world, without powers of your own… It's selfish, firstly, and secondly, it would require extreme lengths."

I nodded. "I… I know. I just… she's my whole world. She's been my whole world for so long."

He twisted his mouth to one side. "The camp doesn't allow mortals within its bounds, but I can make you a deal. This doesn't have to be the last time you ever see her."

My head snapped up. "You can… you can make it so that I can see her again?"

"Not for a long while," he cautioned. "She'll need training before she can brave the mortal world again. As her powers get stronger, so will her appeal to monsters."

"Powers. You mean like… strength?"

Ares shrugged. "Children of Poseidon have control over water. Children of Zeus have control over the skies, children of Apollo light, music, and healing, among others, children of Demeter plants, and children of mine have natural warrior instincts, incredible strength, and a logistic mind for battle."

I looked down at Jude. "She's so small."

"For now," he said. "But not for long."

"Anyway," I said, shaking my head. "You can… you can let me see her again?"

"What's today's date?" Ares said. "The twenty-seventh?"

"The thirtieth," I said. "The thirtieth of May."

"In a decade," Ares said, "come to this exact spot. You see that boulder up there?" He gestured to a large rock positioned on the side of the road. "In ten years, Jude will be waiting there. I'll make sure of it."

I looked at him with gratitude. "Thank you."

He nodded. "I know that I can't fix what happened between us."

"It was my fault, too," I said. "It wasn't as if I loved you."

"Even so," he said. "I think we can both agree that the principle blame falls on me. I can help you with Jude. Once she becomes a teenager, she'll be free to come and see you, if she wishes, but until then, she'll be under the jurisdiction of Chiron and Dionysus."

I blinked. "Who?" I didn't remember the names.

"The leaders of the camp," he explained. "They'll take good care of her. She'll grow up healthy and strong."

"But not with a mother," I said softly.

"This is the best life you can give her." Ares's tone was gentle. "Trust me."

I swallowed. "Can I hold her one last time?"

"By all means." He gave her to me. She stirred, her blue eyes opening wide.

So much to say, and so little time. How could a mother compensate for ten years of absence? How could I make up for a lifetime of missing?

I closed my eyes briefly, a tear snaking its way down my cheek. "Dear Jude," I said, my voice raspy. "I know you can't understand me. I know you won't remember this. So perhaps this is more for me than for you, but I need to say it all the same.

"I am so sorry I will never be there for your first birthday party. I'm sorry that I won't be there to witness your first steps, your first words. I'm sorry that I won't be there when you first have a crush on a boy, or a girl, or whomever you choose. I'm sorry that I won't be able to see you first learn to read, or write. I'm sorry that you'll grow up without me.

"But I'm doing this," I said, voice shaking, "to give you your best chance in life. I haven't always done right by you, but I'm doing right by you now. I love you, my Jude, more than you could ever know, and I'm so sorry that I couldn't do or be more."

Ares's hand fell on my shoulder. "What's her full name?" he asked, voice hushed.

"Jude Austen Bellerose," I said, voice choked. A sob escaped my lips.

"I'll make sure they know," he said. He tilted my chin up so that our eyes met. "I haven't always done right by you, but I'm doing right by you now. I may not love you, Libre Bellerose, but I'd be a fool if I let someone like you waste their life away. The world with you in it is a better place."

I looked down. "I'm going to find him."

"The boy that you fell in love with?"

I wiped my eyes. "I'm going to find Will. You were right. The regret is stupid. And then, after that, I'm going to tell Martel what you said—that it was an adoption, that I wanted to give Jude her best shot, that I wanted her to have things that I could never give her. I'm going to fix things. I'm not done just yet."

Ares smiled. He looked almost proud. "I knew you had it in you."

"I'm not always brave," I said. "I'm not always tough. But I'm a fighter."

"I know," he replied. "It's what drew me to you in the first place."

I let out a long, slow breath. "Goodbye, Ares." I gazed down at the bundle in my arms. On impulse, I reached down into my bag and brought out a notepad and a pen. On it, I wrote a list of phone numbers: Martel's landline, Aunt Lise's landline, the addresses of both apartments. "In case she ever needs me."

"I'll make sure she has it."

I lifted Jude up, drinking her in. "I love you, baby girl." My voice broke. "Thank you for giving me something to live for."

And then I handed her to Ares. He took her gingerly, carefully. "You know how to drive, yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah, I know how to drive."

"Car's yours. Take it wherever you need to go. Just don't drive it off any cliffs, alright?"

I smiled, though my sight was blurred with tears. "Thank you."

Ares dug in his pocket and brought out another drachma. "In case you should ever need me again."

I took the coin and pocketed it. "Thank you."

"Goodbye, Libre Bellerose."

And then he left, opening the door, taking Jude with him. I stifled a sob, watching them go. I was giving Jude her best chance, saving her from an almost-certain death. But my heart was breaking all the same.

Some part of me would always remember my daughter, but in a different way than I remember my mother and sister. She would be something pure in my memories, something good, something that gave my life meaning when it seemed destined to remain bleak and dreary. But now she was in a better place, leading a life better than the one I could ever give her. I'd done right by her, and I knew that. It was a comforting thought.

Shoved in the bottom of my purse was a single baby rattle. I'd cherish it always.

Jude was my first baby, and though my heart broke when she left me, it healed a little, too.

Some time later, I turned the key in the ignition, brought out a map from the glove box, and scanned the interstate. It was time to find Will. I had a score to settle.


	22. Chapter 6: June

**A/N: Here is the final chapter of the actual book part. I'm pretty (not completely) sure that there will be an epilogue, too, and there will for SURE be an acknowledgments. Anyway, this whole story should be finished in a few days, which makes me a little sad, to say the least, but also happy, too. (There's some satisfaction in finishing a long story.) Anyway, as always, thanks to my reviewers and my beta, Rosestream, for carrying me through the words and pages. They wouldn't exist without you.**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Rick Riordan's universe.**

* * *

Six

 _June_

I stopped at a motel, where I spent a good eighteen hours in a deep, dark, dreamless sleep. I showered, dressed in new (if cheaply made) clothes that I bought at a convenience store, and ate breakfast at a diner not unlike the one I used to work at.

And after all of that—after I felt full, rested, and clean—I got in my car and drove to see Will.

I'd concocted a plan while I was sipping my watered-down coffee. I was going to try to fix my mistakes, one by one, painstaking and meticulous as it would be. First on my list was Will. Maybe he'd forgive me, maybe not, but I had to at least try before the bridge was burned forever. My stomach turned at the thought, but as I drove toward Brooklyn, windows open, I knew I'd regret it forever if I didn't.

Second was Aunt Lise. I'd left her without much of a goodbye, and she deserved a thank-you at the very least. After Will, I'd go to the Bronx and make amends. I didn't want to stay in New York, but she had a right to an explanation and an apology, especially after everything she'd done for me. She'd taken me in, sopping wet and shivering in the cold and fear of my past mistakes. If it hadn't been for her, who knew where I would be?

Third was Martel, Jon, and Austen (I'd grouped them as a collective). I'd use Ares's offhand explanation. _A sudden thing. A once in a lifetime opportunity._ I wanted to give Jude a better life than the one I could ever give her. Grappling and grousing for forgiveness was what I did. Thank God (gods?) I was good at it.

I still had a family: Lovett, across a continent and an ocean, Fitz, wandering and restless, Martel, my father, my grandmother. And after that list, there were the ones that were just as important, the ones not related by blood. Austen, who'd stood by me when she didn't even know my name nor my story. Jon, who'd welcomed my intrusion into his life with a simple nod of his head. Will, though I didn't know if that was a tie that could be mended, and the Callahan family, who'd welcomed me into their midst as an unknown stranger.

And I still had Jude. Ten years was a long time, but it was endurable. I'd proven that I'd weathered worse. I still had a daughter somewhere, and strange as it might seem, I knew I had Ares, too. I hadn't forgiven him yet, no more than I'd forgiven myself.

Because that's what it was. I had a feeling that in order to deserve the forgiveness of the people I'd loved and hurt, the people close to my heart but scattered across the world like stars across the night sky, I'd have to learn to forgive myself first.

There was a new hope in my heart, a tiny seed that had dared, tentatively, to root itself in my chest. That was the thing about me, I supposed, my one saving grace in the midst of my mistakes. No matter how bad things got, I found a shred of hope and clung to it, treasured it. Nurtured it the best my clumsy hands could.

I still had a life. It was time to start living it.

Again.

# # #

An hour later, car parked by the curb, I stared up at the Callahan's apartment building as my thoughts tumbled around my head like schoolchildren down a slide. Stomach flip-flopping, I pictured the Callahan family, imagined looking Margaret in the eye. What could I even say? _Sorry I was a cold bitch to your son?_

Even meeting his mother again was a terrifying thought, let alone Will himself.

And what if… What if he wasn't there? If he was gone? What if he met someone else?

I inhaled, taking a slow, deep breath. There were endless what-ifs, but Jesus fuck, I'd had enough of wedging my tail firmly between my legs. I was done being the Cowardly Lion. It was time to be Dorothy instead.

The door to the apartment complex was ajar, like the last time I'd been there. A few boys were playing with a deflated kickball in the alleyway, and a guy in his twenties was leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. Through an open window, I glimpsed a girl getting ready for a date, primping her hair, checking her ass in the mirror and muttering to herself.

Like always, it was humming with life, and I relished the feeling. I'd missed this, I realized, more than I'd known. I no longer had a home anymore. I didn't belong in the deserted farmland of Ohio, or in the crowded city streets of New York, or even the quiet, picturesque serenity of Friday Harbor. I belonged somewhere in-between, a mixture of all these places, a hodge-podge of homes and cultures.

Or maybe I'd had it wrong all along. Maybe it wasn't the place itself that was home, but the people. I'd always relish the feeling of Ohioan soil beneath my bare feet, the taste of a New York City hot dog, the salt spray of the cold Pacific on my cheeks. But more than all of those material things were the people, my brother, Will, the memories.

I stepped over the threshold. The building was more subdued than the Friday night craziness I'd witnessed before, more doors closed than open. I went up flight after flight of stairs, red-faced and panting. And finally, after what seemed an eternity of beige carpet and yellowed walls, I reached Will's floor.

The scent of cigarette smoke. Striped wallpaper. All of these things I remembered.

"Courage," I told myself.

And then I knocked on the Callahan family's door.

# # #

It was Margaret that opened it, lock rattling. "How can I help—" she began, before she saw me, realized it was me, Libre Bellerose, no longer pregnant, no longer sixteen, but seventeen. Changed forever, inexorably a different Libre altogether, and yet somehow still the same.

"Oh. Libre." She shook her head, eyes wide. "I thought you were in Friday Harbor."

My breath caught. So he had gotten my letter. I resisted the urge to ask any further questions, to probe that issue. "Is Will here?" I asked instead.

Margaret nodded slowly. "I… I think he is."

I felt guilty, raw and stripped clean before her as if I was naked. "I'm sorry," I blurted out.

"For what?" She tilted her head, just as Will did when he was confused.

"For… everything, I guess."

Margaret smiled wryly. "I've never held you accountable, dear. Love is a tricky thing without the mess you and Will threw into the mix."

"No kidding," I muttered.

She patted my shoulder. "We all make mistakes. We're human, after all, aren't we?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned. "I'll go get Will. You come in after me."

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside the Callahans' apartment for the first time since that fateful New Year's party. It was exactly the same, with the faded wallpaper I remembered so well, the cracked linoleum countertops, the scratched dining table. A teakettle was whistling merrily on the stove. Will's father and brothers were nowhere in sight, but Brynn and Annie were playing at the kitchen table with dolls. Their eyes widened when they saw me.

"Will, dear," Margaret called. "There's someone here to see you."

"I don't want to see anyone, Ma!" Will shouted. His voice was so achingly familiar that my breath caught, snagged. No one seemed to notice.

"You'll want to see this one!" Margaret hollered.

"I took the day off so that I didn't have to see anyone!" Will complained. I heard the sound of his footsteps. "C'mon, Ma, I really don't—"

And then he stopped short, appearing in the doorway, and I froze.

I knew him so well. His dark curls, his steady gray eyes, his quirk of a smile, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like sprinkles on a soft-serve ice cream cone in midsummer. He was wearing a faded green t-shirt and a pair of holey jeans, and his feet were barefoot. He was Will.

He was my friend.

"Hi," I said. Meekly. Quietly.

"Libre?" he whispered.

Margaret clapped her hands. "I think I'll leave you two to it." She winked. "Come on, Annie, Brynn, dear. Take your toys somewhere else, and leave Will and Libre to talk. Or maybe not to talk, depending." She giggled to herself, and shooed his sisters out of the kitchen, following on her heels.

Will seemed dumbstruck, lost for words. "Did you get my letter?" I said, searching for something, anything, to say.

He raked a hand through his hair. "Yeah."

"Oh." I swallowed. "Did you… read the book?"

A minute head nod.

"Did you… like it?" I cringed at the question.

He didn't answer anyway. Instead, he went over to the cabinet and pulled out a chipped mug. "You want some tea?" he said. His voice trembled ever-so-slightly. "We've got Earl Grey, some green, and some chamomile shit that my mom and Annie like."

"No, thanks."

Will shrugged and poured himself a mug, sticking a green tea bag into the cup. He turned off the stove. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the chairs. He took a seat himself, and I followed suit, uncertain.

I waited for him to speak. It was his turn. The ball was in his court.

And I was in no way prepared for what he asked next.

"What happened to your kid?"

I closed my eyes. "I… I gave her up for adoption. I wanted her to have things that I could never give her, opportunities that I could never give her. That's why I left Friday Harbor. It was a good chance for Jude." I shook my head. "My brother's pissed at me, though."

"Jude." He mulled the word on his tongue. "A good name."

"The doctors were playing 'Hey, Jude' when they delivered her," I said. "Seemed fitting. Her middle name is Austen, after a friend in Friday Harbor. She stuck with me through the whole thing, even though she's only fourteen. She's pretty ballsy." I was babbling, and I knew it, but I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know this quiet, still Will, devoid of all the nervous energy I knew so well.

He probably didn't know this side of me, either.

Will looked a little sad. "I wish I could've seen her."

"Maybe you can, someday," I said. "In ten years, I'm set to have a meeting with her."

"A decade. That's a long time."

"It was the best thing for her." I swallowed. "My heart is broken, but in a way, it's also a little better, too."

Will traced the rim of his cup. A long, thick silence settled over the room. "Should we address the elephant in the room?"

"I don't know." I met his gaze. "It's—it's up to you. I'm the one that came barging into your life, your house."

He was quiet for a long time. (A long time.) Then he finally said, "I met someone."

Silence. And then, from me: "Oh."

I'd like to tell you all a different story. I'd like to tell you a story in which Will told me that he was still in love with me, that he still fostered impossible feelings. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret: that's not how life works. We don't always get our picture-perfect happy endings. I didn't get mine.

And, do you know what the thing was? I was okay with that. Looking at Will, I realized that my heart, bit by bit, had begun to mend in Friday Harbor. He was my friend. I didn't want to fling myself into his arms. I didn't want to kiss him. I just wanted to fix the way that things had ended between us.

Life and love are not perfect sciences. They're weird and fucked-up. Sometimes, inexplicably, you get something taken away from you. And sometimes, inexplicably, you're okay with letting go.

So I smiled, and asked: "What's her name?"

# # #

Her name was Nadia. She had been my replacement at the diner after I left to go to Friday Harbor. Will showed me a picture of her, and she was beautiful—tan, dark-haired, dark-eyed. She was an ardent Grateful Dead fan, and she was saving up to go to college.

Will and I talked for hours. I told him about Friday Harbor, about Jude, about meeting Ares again (edited for a less fantastical version). He told me about meeting Nadia, about finally saving up enough. He was going to community college in the autumn.

And at the end, I kissed his cheek, and he kissed mine. I hugged him, gave him a few phone numbers (landlines, mostly), and he gave me his. We promised to stay in touch.

After all those months of waiting, of dreaming about meeting Will again, our encounter was nothing like I'd dreamt. It was odd, and awkward, and it ended with an exchange of phone numbers, not a declaration of love.

That's life for you. As I descended all those stairs, my heart tapping a steady rhythm on my chest, I felt okay again. It was good—even vital—that I went to see him, because in doing so, I'd tied up a loose end. I'd fixed something inside of me.

There were things about him that I would never get over. Every time I smelled mint, I thought of Will. He was my first love, messy and screwed-up as it had been. We'd fallen in love in the autumn and winter of 1972, and for whatever reason, by the time 1973 rolled around, our sham of a relationship had fallen down like a house of cards. It was no longer there.

I'd always treasure the memories Will and I shared together. He'd been my raft in a choppy sea. But the ocean had calmed now, and it was time for me to start a new beginning, a new start, forge my own path. There were other loose ends I had to knot up, but after I did, there was nothing holding me back again. Nothing.

I didn't know where I would go. Somewhere, I was sure, or perhaps it didn't even matter. As I stepped out into the sunlight of a late afternoon, sliding my sunglasses onto my nose, slipping into the front seat of my car and putting it into drive, I had the sense of something closing behind me, and something entirely new opening. I had a feel of an emotion that I had never felt before. It wasn't happy. But it wasn't sad, either. It was a feel of a mixture of relief and wonder and other things that I couldn't hope to describe.

I was no longer Lili, but I wasn't Libre, either. I was someone new.

A year after my world fell apart, it finally put itself back together again. And for that, I was eternally grateful.

* * *

 **A/N: Feedback? Do people want an epilogue to tie up other character's loose ends? Let me know!**


	23. Part VI: Epilogue

**A/N: The end. Full acknowledgments at the end of this chapter.**

* * *

Part VI

Epilogue

Ten Years Later

After so many tragedies, so many horrors, I finally got my happily ever after.

It was not the textbook picture of happiness—I didn't get the guy, as well I shouldn't have. But Will and I do stay in touch; we call every once in a while. He and Nadia live in Connecticut with their son, Asher, and daughter, Lizzie.

I did manage to tie up my loose ends. I made up with Martel—he was still angry with me, but he understood.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "For the things that I said, and the way that I said them."

More than anything else, I was relieved to have my brother back. If there was one thing that the year of 1972-1973 had taught me, it was to never take anyone or anything for granted. It could be taken away in the blink of an eye.

I made up with Aunt Lise, too. When I went to her apartment, she was in a hurry, on her way to meet a lawyer. After years of putting up with her cheating scumbag of a husband, she divorced Francis. About three years after the divorce, she remarried a kind, middle-aged Scottish schoolteacher. The two moved to Buffalo with her children, where they now reside in a neat, one-story bungalow. They had one more child together, a girl they named Nicoline.

There are others whose stories have moved on and tied up. Fitz came to settle in Block Island, a tiny islet off the coast of Rhode Island. He opened up a bookstore there, and during the spring and summer resided in the apartments above. During the rest of the year, he worked as a freelance journalist, traveling the world at last.

About a year after that June, Lovett was severely injured in action. He was shot in his leg and crippled, and to this day has to use a cane, even after extensive physical therapy. He was, however, allowed to come home. He moved to Ohio, where he established a small, brand-new farm of his own. He married his old high school sweetheart, a girl named Lily, and lives there now with their son. He frequently remarks that the bullet was the best thing that ever happened to him.

My grandmother died around the same time from a stroke. She passed away peacefully in her homeland. My father died about three years ago himself from a heart attack, and now resides in a grave beside my mother and sister, reunited with them after years of heartbreak.

Martel and Jon live together in Friday Harbor. They eventually went on to expand their bed-and-breakfast into a small, quaint inn. About five years ago, they adopted a daughter and named her Amorette. She was originally born in Vietnam.

Austen was accepted into Barnard University, Columbia's sister college in New York, and is now a freelance photographer and novelist. Like Fitz, she backpacks across the globe. She's only seen Europe so far, but she tells me she's determined to see the world—even Antarctica.

And what about me? Where did I go?

At the end of everything, after I'd fixed my mistakes best I could, I was seventeen years old. It had been a year since the earth-shattering events of the summer of 1972. I looked myself in the mirror and noticed something strange. I was young. _Young._

I didn't know who I was yet, not really. And I figured the best way to do that was to go back to the beginning—the very beginning.

I purchased a plane ticket to France. I knew the language, and I wanted to know my history. I visited my grandmother and aunt at their farm, of course, but from there I trod my own path, let my own dust lick my heels.

I went to Paris and stayed there for a few months, but it was dirty, crowded, and smelly, so I moved. From there I went to Toulouse, but I didn't particularly feel at home there, either.

And then I went to Rennes.

It was a lesser-known French city, smaller than New York by a considerable amount. But it was beautiful, and something inside of me clicked into place there. I didn't quite know why I connected, but I did.

I never went back to school. It wasn't for me. Instead, I opened up a stand for the tourists. I served good coffee, trinkets, roasted nuts, and flowers. It didn't amount to much, but I was happy there; really, genuinely happy.

I had other loves, ones that came and went. But none of them stuck. I could tell you their stories, but that's not what this tale is about. I've got one last scene to write.

It's ten years later—May 31, 1983. And it's time to meet my daughter again.

# # #

I wait by the boulder, tapping my foot impatiently. It's strange to be back in America after all these years—English comes clumsy and slow to my tentative tongue.

I check my watch. I've been here since six in the morning, waiting. I flew back from Rennes the day before, went to see Lise in Buffalo before driving down to Long Island. I suppose I'll have other people to visit—maybe I'll drop by Will's house, or go to see Fitz, or Lovett, or Martel and Jon.

I huff, checking my watch again, mind whirling. What if she's forgotten? What if something happened to her? What if—

"Mom?"

And there she is.

She's grown so much in ten years. She stands tall and lithe, arms and legs corded with muscle. Her hair is raven-black, like her father's, but her eyes are all mine; light, luminous green, almost glowing. She's grinning, the smile she got from me, a dimple in her cheek. A courtier smile, my grandmother once said. We got that from my grandfather.

There's intelligence in her eyes, too, along with a hunt of cunning and mischief. She's wearing a pair of Ray-Bans almost exactly like her father's, and a leather necklace with ten clay beads, each with a different design. She has on an orange t-shirt with a Pegasus emblem. It reads _Camp Half-Blood._

"Jude?" I whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

"Mom," she says again, her eyes filling with tears, and then she's running toward me, and I'm running toward her, and after so long, after ten years of waiting, my girl is finally in my arms again. "Mom," she whispers, arms wrapped around me.

"My Jude," I say, breathing in her scent. It's changed, but I'd still know it anywhere. I'd know my daughter anywhere. "My Jude."

# # #

Three days later, I sit here, clacking away at my typewriter.

My story is coming to a close. Just as Austen said, I did have a tale to tell, and though it was filled with tragedy, it ended in a strange happiness. No, not a perfect one, not a pure one, but a happiness all the same.

In regards to my daughter: I've negotiated a new living arrangement. She spends the month of June with me in Rennes, where I'll teach her the language and the history of the half of the family she hasn't yet gotten a chance to know. On July 1, she must return to camp, but for those precious days, I have my daughter all to myself again.

I don't know what the future holds. It's June of 1983, eleven years after Ares first arrived in the cornfields. I am happy, serene, and peaceful in my own way, and my story sits here, in a neat stack of paper. I don't know yet if I'll share it with others. Perhaps, perhaps not. Only time will tell.

But I do have a point to this tale, as short as it is.

This is a story about grief, about strength, about learning to find the good when it seems most impossible. Life isn't perfect. It's not. It just isn't. You will never get a perfect happy ending. You will have shit lobbed at you until you can barely manage to get up.

And it is in that precise moment that you must.

If there are those of you that do have grief, if there are those of you that are on the ground, I just want you to know that you are loved, if by no one else than by me. Thank you for taking the time to see this to the end. Thank you for being there for me through the words and the pages. Thank you for reading.

Eleven years ago, I was a naïve farm girl in the heart of Ohio. Today, I am a mother, a beloved sister (in-law), aunt, and proud owner of a small flower stand on the streets of Rennes. I am no longer a daughter, but in losing that precious title, I have gained so many more. I have lost a sister, but I have gained two: Austen, and Lily, Lovett's wife.

If I had given up, I never would have had any of it.

I will part from you, faithful reader, with this final paragraph: when things are at their very worst, when you can't see past the haze of grief, find the single speck of good, the one, tiny shred of hope. Find it and cling to it like it is your lifeline.

Your imperfect happily-ever-after could be just around the corner from your tragedy.

Sincerely,

Libre Bellerose

Acknowledgments:

I could never have completed this story without the help of my beta-reader, Rosestream. Many thanks and immense gratitude for persevering through my haze of typographical errors and craziness. You made this story possible, and I give you a million (a billion) thanks.

I also never could have written this without the help of my (former) friend Sarah. Before you decided to toss a match onto the haystack, you introduced me to FanFiction. You read my stories, you gave edits. You gave me courage to keep writing, even when no one else read my shitty stories or gave critiques, and for that, I am eternally grateful. _Evart Springs_ , Sarah.

But most of all, I owe many thanks to my reviewers. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: you guys make my day. High school is a tough world, and there's nothing like getting a review after a long, exhausting day. When all I want to do is crawl under the covers and cry, you guys give me the strength to keep on writing.

Thanks for reading, guys. You're the best.

Sincerely,

bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica


End file.
